


The Chase

by Aard_Rinn



Series: Crime in Crystals [8]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, And Corrupt Cops, And explosives, Dope Fight Scenes, Graphic Violence, Guns, Just Cool Spy Shit, M/M, Other, Racing, Sewer Chases, prazzledazzle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:41:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25498522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aard_Rinn/pseuds/Aard_Rinn
Summary: Oh my gosh, you guys. I cannot gush over this beautiful cover too much! It's 100% gorgeous! It was done by seaquestions (https://seaquestions.tumblr.com,  https://twitter.com/seaquestions) who was fantastic to work with, and captured these three beautifully! And Punch and Flipsides - look at those little buggers go! 10/10 recommend him for all your TF art needs! He was wonderful!Speaking of art - zomgitsalaura also did this absolutely beautiful piece of fanart for that scene in Chapter 3 (4, now, I guess?) I won't say too much about the content, since at least some of you will be seeing this before reading that chapter, but WOW you should look at it (once you've gotten that far): https://www.deviantart.com/zomgitsalaura/art/Sonic-Weapon-For-Aard-851051338 . Seriously - thank you so much!Regular chapters will resume... hopefully tomorrow! Just had some family stuff to deal with. :D
Relationships: Hound/Mirage (Transformers), Jazz/Prowl, Megatron/Optimus Prime, Ratchet/Wheeljack (Transformers)
Series: Crime in Crystals [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749994
Comments: 377
Kudos: 242





	1. Cover Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, you guys. I cannot gush over this beautiful cover too much! It's 100% gorgeous! It was done by seaquestions (https://seaquestions.tumblr.com, https://twitter.com/seaquestions) who was fantastic to work with, and captured these three beautifully! And Punch and Flipsides - look at those little buggers go! 10/10 recommend him for all your TF art needs! He was wonderful!
> 
> Speaking of art - zomgitsalaura also did this absolutely beautiful piece of fanart for that scene in Chapter 3 (4, now, I guess?) I won't say too much about the content, since at least some of you will be seeing this before reading that chapter, but WOW you should look at it (once you've gotten that far): https://www.deviantart.com/zomgitsalaura/art/Sonic-Weapon-For-Aard-851051338 . Seriously - thank you so much!
> 
> Regular chapters will resume... hopefully tomorrow! Just had some family stuff to deal with. :D


	2. Chapter 2

When the elevator pings to a stop, four floors down, and the doors slide open, it’s to Road Rage’s grinning face.

“We got ‘em?” He asks Mirage, who nods a brisk affirmative as he strides out into the room. Prowl and Jazz follow, Road Rage falling in behind the two of them with practiced grace.

“Unfortunately,” he gestures at the room that they’ve been let out into - a wide, utilitarian space, hallways branching off in all directions - “A tour of the lower levels will have to wait. Triage -” he indicates the space around them, then points - “Prime’sguard secondary command, my office, long-term medical, the armory -” and guides them down a hall. “And this will take us to tactical command. As I said, your offices will be down here, Prowl - hopefully renovated, by the time we settle affairs in Praxus.”

The hallways are unmarked, and virtually identical, except for their orientation to the elevator. Unlike the painted enamel upstairs, the walls are a brushed, bare metal, utilitarian and easy-to-maintain. Jazz runs a hand down it consideringly as they walk.

>>Easy ta check fer bugs, too. Ain’t gonna be able ta cut through it and enamel it seamless - gotta swap a whole panel if you want ta hide something behind it.<< He pauses, giving it a quick tap as they go on. >>Ain’t hidin’ anything behind it, either - all you need’s a sonoscope ta hear any sorta electronics buzzin’ behind the metal.<<

>>It’s… less than inviting.<< Prowl shrugs, very slightly. >>Figuring out the pathing will be frustrating.<<

>>All parta the charm, Prowler!<< Jazz grins down the bond, though he keeps his face serious as they follow Mirage into an unlocked room.

“Hey, ‘raj - Prowl, Jazz, good to have you with us!” Bumblebee is sitting on top of the table, legs crossed - Nightbeat, Skids, Hot Rod and Ratchet sitting with him. It takes a moment for Prowl to notice that Rung, too, is present, sitting on the far side of Ratchet on the arm of the larger medic’s chair - the pair are pouring over a set of datapads, and don’t even look up at their entrance.

“Bumblebee is going to be handling the on-the-ground recovery operation, at least initially. You’ll be answering to him for this mission - Road Rage and I have other business to attend to.” Jazz grins at the yellow minibot, who grins back. “Hound will be your contact once you reach Praxus - he’s had some time to make arrangements in the city. Skids will be accompanying you to handle tactical -” 

He pauses, just for a moment, as if he’s expecting an argument, but Prowl doesn’t so much as flinch. It’s been a long time since he’s been involved in a major incident without being primary tactical, but he’s junior, here - to an extent, it makes sense that Mirage and Bumblebee wouldn’t want to trust him with their or their agent’s lives. Mirage brushes on.

“And Ratchet will be returning with you as medical, using his ‘Triage’ cover.” 

Jazz gives the medic a surprised look. “I thought Ambulon -”

“I need to get the clinic set up for Ambulon, and the Yoopers aren’t going to be thrilled at the thought of a new medic moving in unless I clear it up with them.” Ratchet doesn’t look up from the datapads when he speaks. “Plus, the last intel our two missing agents have is that I’m running a shop in that area, and I’m friendly - that was part of the update Hound got to them before they left. They might contact me at the clinic, they might not - might even recognize Ambulon, if we sent him, but I don’t want them hearing mutterings about a strange new medic and bolting.”

“You two, Red, and Ratchet made a decent ground team, from the sounds of things. I took a look at your files, Prowl - we should be able to make things work with a minimum of fuss, but without any time for retraining I’d rather have that flexibility.” Bumblebee nods. “So, that’s going to be our insertion team - myself, Red Alert, you two, Hot Rod, Ratchet, and Skids. We’ve got Hound on the ground, and once we have things underway, Prime will be having some of the other Ops branches send mechs our way, but…”

He shrugs. “That’s what we’ve got. Blaster - the commsmech for Iacon - will be handling our comms; Red Alert will be handling encryption. Nightbeat’s pulled together what we have on the gang they were investigating - I’ll walk you through that in a klik.”

“An’ you?” Jazz’s gaze flicks to Hot Rod - who’s chromeonanites flicker from his usual cheery red-and-yellow to an elegant purple-and-blue.

“I’m your sexy side piece!” He grins. “Or your muscle, whichever comes first. No offense, but you guys are kind of short on shell-stops if you get in a real firefight.”

“No offense, Prowl - your performance as a buymech was… underwhelming.” Bumblebee grins.

“You’ve seen -” It takes Prowl a moment to figure out where they may have found footage, and he turns to narrow a glare at Mirage, who gives him an amused smirk.

“Speaking of which.” The spymaster steps back. “I’m going to make sure you’ve got a shuttle ready - we’re flying you in, I don’t want to burn a whole cycle on the rail.”

Bumblebee waves him off, gesturing them towards the chairs. “We should be ready to move out in a joor.” Mirage nods gracefully, the door clicking shut behind him as Road Rage turns to follow him back down the hall. 

“Great!” The minibot claps his hands together. “So, first off. Our missing agents.” He waves his hand, and the holoemitter over the table flickers to life, projecting a pair of mechs - one blue and yellow, the other white and magenta.

After a moment, their coloring inverts - blue shifting to yellow, white shifting to magenta - and reversed. “Both are expert infiltrators. Punch has a shell personality - ‘Counterpunch’ - that is completely programmable - you code the behaviors you want, have someone who knows what they’re doing put together a set of false memories, and his own code does the rest. He’ll be that person until a command word is used to break him out of it - even a technopath wouldn’t be able to figure him out, unless they knew exactly what to look for.”

“That’s…” Prowl can feel Jazz’s speechlessness - and agrees with it, honestly. The thought of a mech with that sort of sleeper coding… “‘S that a sigma, or…?”

“Entirely coding-based.” Bumblebee shakes his helm. “Don’t worry, though - the mechs that did it to him are long dead, and everyone who was part of that program is either with them or with us.”

“Ah. And Flipsides?” Prowl prompts.

“He’s one of my warren - hence why I’m running the show, rather than Mirage. He’s got a modulatory Sigma ability, like Jazz’s.” Bumblebee gestures to him. “Well - closer to Mirage’s, really. He can modulate his field perfectly, and he’s almost unreadable to technopaths - I won’t go too much into the specific function, but, well. It makes him a decent infiltrator, and a great handler for Punch - we insert him into the coding as a close friend, and Counterpunch follows him right to a nice private room to debrief and retransition.”

“And then Flipsides handles the information relay.” Prowl nods. “Are we certain that both of them are missing? Or is it possible that Punch is still active as Counterpunch, and simply unable to make contact because he’s unaware of his base personality?”

“Anything’s possible.” Bumblebee shrugs. “Hound’s been scoping the place out as best we can, but with Skids here and both of them missing… he’s not able to do a whole lot. We can’t risk him, for obvious reasons -” He gestures at the door after Mirage. “Theoretically, Counterpunch _should_ contact an old mutual friend of theirs, Hound, if Flipsides goes missing, but the coding is pretty flexible. It’s set up so he’ll believe Flipsides over anyone else, if Flipsides is accused of being a spy, but beyond that, he’ll react according to the Counterpunch’s programmed personality - if there’s a reason he feels he shouldn’t get in touch, he won’t.”

“Right.” Jazz nods. “An’ they’ve got no trackers, or nothing?”

“Nothing. Too risky on Punch, and Flipside’s sigma actively interferes with the signal.”  
“Right.” Jazz considers that for a moment. “So what’s the plan?”

“Well…” Bumblebee shrugs. “Skids is handling tactical, but it’s your city. Figured we’d get your input, first, before we set anything in steel.”

“Fair enough.” Prowl can feel the thoughts turning over in Jazz’s processor through his meta as he activates his own ATS to begin working through the data - the flexible coil of his consideration. “We’ve got to figure out why your mechs ran, first. That’ll give us some idea of where they’ve gone - an’ our time limit.” Jazz pauses for a long moment, meeting Bumblebee’s optics before glancing away. “You’re sure they ain’t dead?”

Bumblebee shakes his helm. “Ops mechs are harder to kill than that. We proceed as if they’re alive until they’re back, or we’ve got the bodies.”

“It’s that way for everyone,” Rung adds, glancing up - the first thing he’s said so far. “It doesn’t matter if we have video of their frames being dumped in a smelter - without a body, no Ops mech is ever written off, although the search may be. We’ve had too many miraculous recoveries to discount them.”

Skids snorts, at that, and Rung, Bumblebee, and Nightbeat all give him a sympathetic look. “Getaway - my partner -” He offers, by way of explanation. “We’re still waiting for him to turn up. Got caught in an exploding satellite, fall should have vaporised him if the bomb didn’t.”

“Slag - I’m sorry, mech -” Jazz offers, optics widening, but Skids snorts again and waves a dismissive hand.

“Don’t worry about it. He’ll turn up. After the third or fourth time your partner ‘dies for certain’ you kind of get over it, you know?” He shifts his focus back to the datapad. “Point is - we find out where they are, or we find out what was done to the bodies. We’d do the same for you, if it helps.”

The look Rung gives him, at that, is enough to tell Prowl that that’s _very much_ not where the therapist wants to let the matter lie - but Bumblebee gives him a _look_ , and Rung doesn’t say anything else. Jazz steps in, hastily, to cut the growing silence.

“So, yeah. We’re gonna need to go in and figure out why they ran. Might be that their cover was blown, but th’ gangs can be pretty rough - if your mechs got in a fight with someone, they coulda had to run for it.” He shrugs. “We can check out some of the clinics, too - Ratch has connections. Maybe Flipsides got slagged, and Counterpunch ran, or something.”

“That’s…” Bumblebee’s gaze shifts to Rung, again, who gives Jazz a considering look. 

“Actually, that would fit the Counterpunch profile fairly well. He’s not supposed to contact Hound unless Flipsides is missing, captured, or dead - if he was just incapacitated…” Rung makes a vague gesture. “He wouldn’t willingly leave Flipsides’ side, at least. The programming, and the cover they’ve got, are set up to keep them together.”

“So Ratch’ checks out the clinic scene, me an’ Prowl - or Hot Rod, if you wanna send him, I guess - check out th’ gang…” Jazz falls silent, but Prowl steps in.

“What was Barricade told about my departure from Praxus?”

“What?” Bumblebee gives him a surprised look, then shrugs. “Not much. You took two orns off to visit Iacon - it’s been just about one and a half, so… I think Mirage was going to bring it up with you, when he had a chance. Once you and Ultra Magnus had hashed things out.”

“One moment.” He mirrors the gesture with a raised hand. ::Ultra Magnus - are you available?::

The comm crackles to life after a few moments. ::Of course, Prowl. Can I be of assistance?::

::What’s been filed, in terms of my Completion of Watch?::

Ultra Magnus hesitates. ::Nothing, as of yet. I had planned to file the paperwork when I returned to the precinct tonight.::

::Can you withhold it until further notice?:: Prowl hesitates, uncertain of what he can and can’t tell the other enforcer. ::Please?::

::Of course.:: Ultra Magnus pings back his agreement. ::And - Prowl - I would like to speak to you again before you return to Praxus.::

::If I can.:: He acknowledges the request. ::Thank you -::

And he lets the commlink flicker out, returning his attention to the room. 

“My apologies, sir.” He ducks his helm to Bumblebee respectfully. “I merely wanted to confirm - nothing official has been made of my resignation, as of yet. It would be possible for me to visit the Precinct in Praxus if you thought it necessary, to confirm whether or not they’re being held there - a decent excuse would be necessary as to why I had returned early, but…”

“One can be arranged.” Bumblebee gives that a considering look. “We’ve already had Red Alert access their files - neither Flipsides nor Counterpunch’s current covers are listed as being held, at the moment, nor any mechs matching their description.”

Prowl nods, but pushes ahead anyways. “Barricade is under Titanium’s thumb - he works with several of the city’s lords, but… Titanium has all of the power, in Praxus. If a pair of the Prime’s agents were caught in the city…” He hesitates, for a moment. “It would be brought to his attention. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s used a favor from the enforcers to keep a mech from causing trouble.”

“And then, if we locate them, Barricade denies any knowledge of their identities, and gets off scot-free?” Hot Rod asks with a snort. “Seems like a risky play for him.”

“Ah… no.” Prowl shakes his helm. “He would…” He trails off again, not wanting to say it to the mech’s friends, but Bumblebee finishes the sentence for him.

“He shoots them in the helm, and dumps the bodies. And when we come knocking, they feed us a line about how they got in a fight with some other prisoners and got slagged, or - it doesn’t matter.” Bumblebee nods. “We’ll come up with something, Prowl.”

“Once we know why they’re gone -” Jazz waves a hand illustratively - “That’ll give us a timeline, at least. If they just got in a fight an’ booked it, we’ve got as long as we need ta figure out where they are - though hopefully they’d just give us a shout an’ let us know what’s up, soon as they can. If the gang’s’re on ‘em…” He trails off for a moment. “We’ll need ta work a lot faster. There’re plenty of good places ta hide, in Praxus - problem is, you never know what’s a spot you’ve got ta yourself, and what’s a spot everymech knows. They’d be keeping to the undercity, probably - easy to move around, and even for mechs who know the place, it’s tricky to track anyone down there.”

“That gives us plenty of places to start, then.” Bumblebee gives a crisp nod. “We’ll handle ongoing planning from the ground, once we’ve made contact with Hound and gotten a better idea of what’s going on. Hot Rod, Warpath has some gear for you to pick up in the Prime’sguard armory - escort Prowl up to the main floors, and then go deal with that. Prowl, Ultra Magnus wanted a word before we departed - his room is three doors down from Ratchet’s. Handle that quickly, we’re departing in a joor. Jazz, Ratchet wanted you over in medical before we leave; Skids, Rung, Nightbeat, you’re with me. Dismissed.”

Prowl sends Jazz a little ping of curiosity when Ratchet rises, careful as he does not to knock Rung off the chair - the therapist waits until he’s clear, then climbs up onto the table to sit crosslegged besides Bumblebee, the four mechs remaining at the table obviously deep in silent conversation. >>Do you know what -<<

>>Ratch’s after?<< Jazz laughs, following the medic to the door. >>Yeah, it’s not a big deal. Just gotta get my sonics back up, I think - much as he hates me usin’ them, he hates sendin’ me out without ‘em more, as many times as they’ve saved my aft. An’ it ain’t the sort of surgery you want to be doing outside a medbay, even if it won’t take long.<< Prowl can sense his amusement down the bond. >>Go talk ta Magnus, Prowler - I’ll be fine. Be fine not seein’ him for a while, honestly…<<

The words would sting, but the bond gentles them into the teasing he can feel that Jazz intends them to be. >>See you on the transport, then.<<

>>See you on the transport.<<

He follows Hot Rod down one hall, Ratchet splitting off to lead Jazz down another, and into the elevator.

“So, you’re one of us now!” The Prime’sguard gives him a grin as the doors slide shut. “Finally. I’m glad you’re gonna be sticking around - and maybe you can teach me enough while we’re in Praxus that I can wipe the floor with ‘Hide when we get back!”

“I doubt it.” But Prowl lets his field flicker with amusement. “One of us?”

“You know - Optimus’ guys! I mean, sure, you’re not a fashionable slab of steel like me or Springer, but we’re all working on the same side, now!” He bounces lightly on his heels. “And I get to go on a _secret mission -_ how cool is that?”

“I won’t say I’m not looking forward to it.” Prowl agrees obligingly. “This is -”

“My first mission with Ops, yeah! Well, without Ironhide - _you_ were my first mission with Ops, technically. But -” He steps off the elevator as it dings to a stop. “I mean, that wasn’t super-successful, but you were basically an agent anyway, so I don’t think I can hold that against me.”

“You did very well, I thought.” He gives a considering tilt of his helm as Hot Rod leads him back up to the main hallway. “You built a strong rapport, and -”

Hot Rod grins and waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, not the guarding stuff. I mean, I’m Prime’sguard, we do that all the time - but that first interview, with Hound? You had me as soon as I walked in the door.”

“Yes, but -” It occurs to Prowl as he says it that no one has actually _told_ Hot Rod that he was being used to build rapport with Prowl, and he falls silent, considering that - then making a note to mention it to Ironhide the next time he sees the older Prime’sguard. “You put on a very good show. If I didn’t know what to expect, you would have been very successful.”

“Thanks.” Hot Rod grins again. “I bet I’m gonna learn _loads_ , working with you guys, though.”

Prowl can’t help the little smile at the younger mech’s enthusiasm. “I’m sure you will. I’m sure we both will - I’m trained as an enforcer, so there’s bound to be plenty of things you’ve learned in the Prime’sguard that I haven’t.”

That thought makes a little delighted flicker go through Hot Rod’s field, and he gives a happy chirp.

“You can find your way from here, right? I’d better go - if Warpath wants to see me, that means it’s ordinance or explosives, and ordinance briefings take _forever._ ” Still, he gives a cheerful wave. “See you on the transport!”

“I’ll see you there.” He nods, and Hot Rod darts off down the hall, grabbing the corner to swing himself around as he goes. Prowl goes his own way at a more measured pace, a brisk walk - nothing to keep Ultra Magnus waiting, though he can’t help the nervous twinge of curiosity as to what his former commander might want.

He knocks politely when he reaches the room, and the door swings open only a moment later. “Ah - Prowl.” The soft smile on Ultra Magnus’ face banishes any flickers of concern. “Please, come in. Sit with me?”

“Of course.” The room Prowl steps past Ultra Magnus into is… spartan, seems the best way to describe it. It’s not too dissimilar from Prowl’s own rooms, back in Praxus, or Ultra Magnus’ private quarters at the precinct - the smooth, flowing lines and crisp angles that Prowl knows the older enforcer finds soothing, and the neat, smooth greys and whites that make it easy to spot any accumulating dust. The chairs are simple, designed to be comfortable for a mech of Ultra Magnus’ or the Prime’s stature; Prowl waits until Ultra Magnus is settled on one before perching on the low energon table in front of it, close enough for their fields to overlap.

It’s an intimate gesture, and a touch forward, but… Ultra Magnus is his oldest friend, and Prowl wants to steal what little closeness he can.

Ultra Magnus considers him for a moment, then leans forward, bringing their fields into deeper overlap as his engine rumbles warmly.

“I don’t like seeing you go back to Praxus, Prowl.” Ultra Magnus’ voice is soft with sincerity. Prowl hesitates, opening his mouth to say - something, he’s not sure what - but Ultra Magnus’ hand cups his face gently, and he falls silent. “I don’t, but… I understand why this is something you have to do. I can’t protect you from everything - couldn’t protect you from _him_ \- but… it’s still hard to see you go.”

“I’ll be fine.” He almost whispers it - it’s hard to speak, in the face of the… pain? No - the _grief_ flickering in Ultra Magnus’ field. “Jazz will keep me safe.”

“He will, I don’t doubt it. He loves you, Prowl - I’m happy for you.” He pauses. “We all are. But…”

He pauses again, thumb rubbing gently over Prowl’s cheek, and then leans his helm in to press it carefully against Prowl’s.

“I wanted to ask you before I sent you away, that first time, but… I didn’t want Barricade to think I was undermining him, didn’t want you to have that between you and him…” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “I didn’t want you to look back. But…”

He vents a heavy sight - and Prowl can feel the hesitation in his field, the nervousness -

“I don’t want to lose sight of you again. You are as dear to me as any mech, Prowl - would you consent to be my _amica_ , as near my spark as any mech, until we and all are One in the well of all sparks?” 

The words are heavy with formality - the dignified rote of some ancient ritual - but Prowl can feel the sincerity burning beneath them - and the answering well of longing in his own spark.

“Yes.” It takes him a moment to find the word, and he almost chokes on it. “Of course I will - Ultra Magnus -”

“Thank you.” The larger mechs drop to wrap around him, half dragging him off the table into one of Ultra Magnus’ vanishingly rare hugs. “Thank you, Prowl. I… this means the world to me.”

“To me too.” Prowl lets the warmth of his mentor’s frame surround him, the dense thunder of the engine beneath his armor a familiar sound. “Thank you. I… thank you, sir.”

That gets him a chuckle that echoes through his plating. “None of that.” Ultra Magnus pulls back, just a little. “My other _amica_ call me Magnus, Prowl. It would please me very much to have you do the same.”

Prowl gives him a teasing smile back. “I’ll try. I’m sure I’ll manage it about the same time as I remember not to call the Prime ‘my Lord’.”

That gets him another rumble of laughter.

“He hates it, you know. Always has.” He pauses for just a moment. “That’s why we all do it, on occasion. You have to time it right - I am not particularly good at it, but Ironhide can manage it immediately after he takes a sip from a cube with surprising accuracy.”

Prowl can’t keep back the amused chuff at that thought.

Ultra Magnus gives his back a gentle stroke before sitting back - careful to help Prowl back onto the table without dropping him, first. “I will take the liberty of filing with Blaster, if that’s alright with you?” He offers.

“That would be perfect.” And, of course, the paperwork will be ready and complete - Ultra Magnus wouldn’t offer without having everything in order. He rises to his pedes - as much as he would like to stay, there’s not much time to tarry. “I should go, but… thank you, Magnus. For everything.”

“It was my pleasure, Prowl. Always.” Ultra Magnus rises to escort him to the door, brushing a last, fond hand over his shoulder as he steps out into the hall. “If you need anything, I will only be a comm away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok - I know there’s a lot to talk about, but first: If you haven’t seen him, go look up G1 Warpath _right now._ He’s… phenomenal. Just… no one has ever designed a mech more elegant, more poised, more _wonderously impractical_ than Warpath. Seriously, I have never seen a mech more fit for that Me, My Conjunx, and His Rodpod meme than him.
> 
> With that image seared into your brains… PLOT!
> 
> We get a bit of a briefing, here - a little taste of all the things that Jazz and Prowl are going to get up to in Praxus. This will probably be the first time I do more than one perspective on a semi-consistent basis for a story - Prowl is going to go off on his own for a bit, as will Jazz and Hot Rod (the dream team) and Bumblebee. Maybe even Skids, Primus help us! It’ll be _an Adventure!_
> 
> And, and, and! We find out what Ultra Magnus needed to talk to Ratchet (or, failing that, Optimus) about. He has wisely decided to ignore Ironhide’s terrible, terrible advice for a while. (That’s not fair. Ironhide’s advice is usually pretty solid, but for flowery wording, _you want an Optimus._ )
> 
> And yes, Hot Rod’s much sexier alter ego for sneakin’ is just Blueberry Rodimus from IDW. I’m sorry, I thought of it as soon as I wrote the thing with Jazz having a sexy blue-and-gold number, and… I’ve been waiting _so long_ to have Jazz and Roddy sneak in somewhere as high-end prostitutes. So long.
> 
> So with that said… Obviously, this being posted means that the Miragventures of Mirage isn’t… YET! I actually have the first whole chapter of that pretty much done, but… I have the first chapter, a big chunk of the third, and a huge chase scene for the fourth done for this, and I just really wanted to work on it. I’ll probably keep plunking away at the Mirage stuff, and post it as a hiatus thing if I have to take one of those before I finish this. Fortunately, this story is going to be a lot shorter than The Talk - it's just going to cover the recovery of Punch and Flipsides, and then the rest of Praxus is going to be it's own story, so... 50k words, maybe?
> 
> I’m also, god help me, at around 3 out of 8 thousand words on The Cliffjumper Thing, so… no worries, that’s happening. It’s a big ol’ one-shot, though, so I’m gonna sit on it till the 100% RADICAL COVER I commissioned for it comes in, and POST IT ALL AT ONCE so you guys can bathe in the awesome of it.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter of The Prime - and thank you to everyone who’s stuck with me this long!


	3. Chapter 3

>>Amica, huh?<< Jazz’s voice down the bond is considering, as Prowl makes his way back towards him. >>That’s…<<

>>I know he frightened you, but…<< _But Prowl_ wants _this_ , and he feels immediately bad for thinking it - Jazz has already been so accommodating, and -

>>What?<< Jazz sounds… surprised, and follows Prowl back down the bond to examine his thought processes. >>What? Prowler, no - I’m happy for you! You need some slaggin’ friends, an’ much as ‘Raj an’ Bee are growing on me, I’m not gonna complain ‘bout knowin’ you’ve got a direct line ta th’ scariest mech in the universe if they start slaggin’ us around.<<

>>Oh.<< Prowl cycles his optics. >>Thank you, Jazz.<<

>>It’s just…<< Jazz hesitates, and Prowl pushes confidence down the bond, confidence that is accepted gratefully. >>I've been thinking… about asking Ratchet, actually.<< Jazz goes quiet for a moment. >>I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but… that oath… Ratch’ an’ me go way back - like, all the way. Even if we didn’t start workin’ together until a lot more recent…<<

>>He was willing to claim you.<< Prowl offers. >> _Jazz, who Ratchet taught_ \- I don’t think he would say no.<<

>>Yeah, but…<< Jazz pauses again. >>I dunno. I’ve never had an _amica_ before - haven’t had anybody like that since Rico’, an’ you know how that…<<

>>You have me.<<

>>Woulda’ probably got stuck servos there, too, if I hadn’ thought we were both gonna die.<< Jazz laughs, and there’s just a hint of bitterness to it. >>Trust me, I’m more than able ta self-sabotage, if it means not gettin’ th’ things I want.<<

>>Talk to Bumblebee about it.<< Prowl suggests. >>See what he has to say.<<

>>Bee?<< Jazz sounds surprised at that. 

>>Bee.<< Prowl agrees. >>Or Mirage. Or Skids,<< he adds, after a moment of consideration. >>Get their input. There may be other considerations, now that we are in Ops - I am aware that Ratchet has medical privacy coding, but you may need additional partitioning software or firewalls before accepting a new _amica._ << Not that he at all suspects that _Ratchet_ would hack anyone, least of all Jazz, but any resistance the assassin gets will harden his resolve.

>>Huh.<< Jazz contemplates that for a klik. >>Yeah, that… that ain’t a bad idea. Get it out in th’ open - say slag aloud before I try an’ ask him.<< He pauses for a moment, and then, with brass bearings, asks >>You think th’ Prime’d help me out? They go way back, so it wouldn’ be weird of me ta ask him, right?<<

>>Right.<< It wouldn’t be, at all - would in fact be tremendously proper, except for the fact that… >>No stranger than asking anything else of _the Prime._ <<

>>Huh. Fair.<< Jazz pauses for another moment, deep in thought. >>Yeah, I’ll - I’ll talk ta Skids, I think, if I can get him alone - get it out in th’ open, find out what I have to do ta get approval. Hey -<< And he sounds like he’s only just thought of something - >>You don’t think that they’re gonna give you slag about Ultra Magnus -<<

>>No.<< Of that, at least Prowl is certain. >>Magnus would never have asked me without taking every detail into account.<<

>>An’ ‘Raj is scared as pit of him. Fair ‘nuff.<< Jazz chuckles, spirits returning. >>You almost here, mech? Ratch’s makin’ optics at my shoulder baffles, an’ I’m pretty sure he’s gonna start tinkerin’ if someone doesn’ show up ta stop him soon.<<

>>Hm. If he starts, tell him to check your left acromial gear - it’s been clicking.<< Jazz makes an indignant noise, and Prowl laughs. >>Of course. I’ll be there in just a klik, Jazz.<<

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He is, in fact, there within a klik - by the time he reaches the medbay, Jazz is back on his pedes, shoulders fully assembled, and Ratchet is wiping down a handful of tools.

“That should have taken care of it,” the medic offers with a gesture. “Just a faint misalignment - let me know if it keeps clicking, I grabbed a replacement if I need it. Jazz,” and he claps the assassin on the shoulder as he subspaces the last tool, “has an amazing talent for stripping gears.”

“Feels fine, Ratch - you know I’d tell you if it didn’t…” Jazz rotates the shoulder cuff experimentally, and Prowl nods his agreement.

“It sounds fine, now.” 

“Eh, keep an audial out - it’s set right, now, but if the gear’s shot, it’ll slide back out of alignment. Like I said, I’ve got a spare, but I’d have to pull it out of a full shoulder assembly to install it.” Ratchet goes over to a cabinet, and a moment later, tosses a small cube of coolant to Jazz, who snatches it neatly out of the air and deposits it on the medberth. He catches three more in neat succession before Ratchet strides back to the berth, an oil canister in each hand.

“Alright - you, subspace those.” He pushes two of the cubes and a canister towards Jazz. “Same to you. Jazz, if Prowl crashes again and starts to overheat, knock him offline and do a coolant swap - dump whatever he’s got and keep running fresh coolant until he drops back to a safe temp, or you don’t have enough coolant to keep flushing and leave him with a full tank. Prowl -”

He cuts off at the worried look in Prowl’s optics, and his voice softens. “I don’t think it’s going to happen, Prowl. But a full flush will have you back on your pedes in a couple of kliks, rather than a breem, and that’s -”

“- time we might not be able to afford.” Prowl finishes. “No, it’s a good thought, Ratchet. Thank you.” He tucks the coolant neatly away, and the oil.

Ratchet huffs a vent. “Well, I’m all set, then.” He makes his way over to the door, gesturing for them to follow. “Mirage said they’d have kit for you on the transport - let me know if you’re missing anything and I’ll try to grab it in Praxus. Meanwhile, I’ve got to convince your Guardsmech friend that baffles aren’t going to do him any harm…” 

He gives Prowl a considering look. “Between you and Skids, you should be able to hold down one struggling Prime’sguard, right?”

“Is that…” Prowl flicks his wings in faint consternation. “Do you think that will be necessary?”

“Eh…” Ratchet wiggles his hand indecisively. “You’ve never tried to get a military frame to sit down for a physical. They get cagey.”

Jazz laughs. “Just tell ‘im it’s spy slag. He’ll eat it up.” He snorts. “Ain’t even a lie, mostly.”

Ratchet looks like he’s thinking about it.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bumblebee, Hot Rod, and Skids are already waiting for them by the time they reach the hangar. 

“Excellent.” Bumblebee considers the three of them. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, we’re all set,” Jazz replies with a grin. “Packed light, ‘cause Ratch told us you’d be handling arrangements.”

“We’ve got some kit for you, yeah.” Bumblebee gestures for them to follow him onto the shuttle looming behind him - an unsparked air transport. “Pretty basic stuff - a couple guns, some ammo, everything you had on you when we grabbed you - we left the crystalarium in your hab, by the way, Prowl, my warren’ll keep an optic on it for you.”

It’s… a little bit of a relief to hear that the garden is intact, although he hasn’t even thought about it since his capture. “Thank you.”

“No problem - Beachcomber was all atwitter when he saw it, he loves that kind of thing. It’s in good hands, I promise.” Bumblebee grins. “Anyway - so we’re going to be landing in Rhaxa just before dawn, running dark. It’s as close as you can get to the city and still be in Iaconi airspace. From there, we’re going to hop a train, and ride into the city proper - Red Alert will take care of anonymizing our tickets and making sure our flight plan goes unnoticed. Even if someone guesses we’re in the city, they won’t have any way to tell how we came in.”

::Except for cameras.:: Red Alert’s voice blooms over the comms, making Hot Rod yelp in surprise - everyone else seems used to it. ::Don’t worry, though. I’ve had Inferno work up some lovely programming for your chromeonanites; we’ll only use it once, during disembarkation, so there won’t be any way to tie it back.::

A file pings in Prowl’s inbox - a tasteful, dark-green-and-gold palette. Not traditionally Praxian, but more than adequate to distract any searching optics from his features, and entirely unlike anything he would have designed.

Ratchet makes a loud, indignant noise.

That makes everyone look over - Jazz most curiously of all. “What’d he send you?” He asks, unpackaging the file and turning a warm, brassy brown with tan accents.

“It’s hideous.”

:: _It’s something._ :: Red Alert replies with easy delight. ::Go ahead - _show them._ ::

Ratchet’s engines snarl in annoyance, but he complies - and promptly turns a bright, solid red, all over. 

Bumblebee perks up in amusement. “Wow, that looks like -”

“ _I know._ ” Ratchet grumbles.

:: _I_ think it’s a very tasteful red.:: Red Alert forges ahead blithely. ::Don’t you, Ratchet?::

::Frag yourself.:: But there’s a hint of frustrated amusement behind Ratchet’s annoyance, and he smirks as he grabs Hot Rod - now a _truly inventive_ shade of cerise - by the shoulder. “Speaking of things being done to us that we don’t particularly enjoy - I’ve got some _spy mods_ I need to install on you.::

“What? Oh -” Hot Rod, as predicted, grins, following him over to the far corner of the passenger bay. “Cool!”

Bumblebee watches in amusement as he lets himself be led off. ::Any idea what that’s about?:: he asks over comms a moment later.

::Oh, yeah -:: Jazz nods. ::My sonics - Ratch is gonna patch in some baffles so he doesn’t get completely shredded if I have to blast mechs off of him, or somethin’. We haven’ found anything that’ll cushion it completely, but as long as I don’ catch him helm-on, they should be enough ta keep him on his pedes an’ runnin’.::

He follows the comm a moment later with a set of technical specs, which Bumblebee decompresses and examines before nodding. ::That’s a last resort, right?::

::Big time,:: Jazz agrees. ::Slags me almost as bad as th’ mechs I’m dealin’ with - you saw it in action up in Feldspar’s rooms. Well, it an’ a couple of well-placed grenades.::

::Fair enough.:: Bumblebee grins. ::Speaking of grenades…::

He gestures them over to a set of crates - and Skids, who is already digging through one with an eager look on his face. “Take a look - I’m going to get us in the air.”

“You can fly?” Jazz asks in surprise.

“Yeah?” Bumblebee gives him an amused look at that. “Plenty of minibots are pilots -”

“No, I mean -” Jazz flusters. “Sorry - I thought it’d be one of th’ Prime’sguard, or somethin’. I’ve never flown before - didn’ occur ta me that any of us’d know how.”

“Really, you’ve never -” Bumblebee cuts himself off before he can finish the sentence. “Oh, yeah - yah, it’s not a big deal. I was a scout, before I joined Ops - learned on single-seaters, and they trained me on transports when we were long-hauling back to Cybertron. There’s not much to hit, out in space - pretty easy to pick it up, once someone shows you what you’re doing.”

“That’s…”Jazz gives that a thoughtful look. “I don’t suppose…”

“Yeah, we’ll teach you.” Bumblebee grins at that. “Everyone learns, in Ops - nothing quite like having to make a hasty escape and realizing that no one conscious knows how to fly the transport. You’ll pick it up quick.”

“Neat.” Prowl can feel the little frission of excitement in Jazz’s field as the door to the cockpit slides shut behind Bumblebee. “So, ah - what’ve we got, Skids?”

“Well, this is all yours -” Skids gestures to the box he’s sifting through. “Sorry - you’ve got some neat guns in here, thought I’d take a look. You actually were shooting through walls with them, then?”

“Yeah, I’ve got infra-reds that can handle it if th’ walls’re thin enough.” Jazz nods, settling down on the bench, clipping himself into the seat, and sliding the box towards himself. “Jackie put ‘em together for me. Did you mechs clear out my warehouse, or…?”

“Nah - Red said not to, and before that we weren’t eager to get pumped full of lead by whatever defenses you _did_ have guarding the place.”

“We can pick up some extra firepower there, then, if we need it.” Jazz grins. “Got plenty of kit I didn’t bother bringin’ to a fancy dinner.”

“Ah - we’ll need to have anything we grab approved by ‘Raj, unless it’s a real emergency.” Skids hesitates. “There are… restrictions we try to keep to, when it’s possible -”

Jazz snorts in amusement. “You know it’s possible fer a weapons designer ta go his whole career without accidentally designing a war crime, right? Jackie’s slag is fine - Ratch keeps an optic on him, an’ aside from th’ occasional accident, he’s harmless.”

“Ah…” Skids looks doubtful, but he doesn’t argue the point. “Anyways - I’ve got a couple cubes here for both of you - should be enough for two cycles each, accounting for your consumption, Prowl. We had some help from the Prime’sguard moving in a whole shipping container a couple cycles ago, so we’ve got access once we’re in the city - keep a two cycle supply on you in case you can’t get back to us, and if you’ve got to buy fuel, make it random, and try to lose anymech who might be tracking you first. Never hit the same place twice.”

It’s pretty standard counter-poisoning training, and Prowl nods his agreement. “Mirage said there was a file to assist in comparing the seals?” Something much more important with the cubes unattended in a warehouse.

“Oh, yeah -” Skids pings him, first a comm code, then a file. “Shouldn’t take more than a moment, just make sure you’ve got a helm-on view of the seal.”

“Perfect.” Prowl picks up the cubes, running them both through the comparison program before subspacing them - and his service pistol. “You said something about grenades?”

“Oh yeah - just a couple of things -” He pulls open a box, and hands something that, yes, is clearly a grenade, to Prowl. “Flash-bang - don’t look at it, don’t listen to it. Don’t know how useful it’ll be to you, with the -” he flaps his own doorwings illustratively - “They put me right on the ground.”

“I should be fine - I have a cutoff.”

“Nice.” Skids grins and hands him a different grenade, one that looks less familiar. “Concussive - that’ll daze anyone you get within about five meters of it, so give yourself some distance but it doesn’t have to be a lob. Or - well, you’ve got decent plating, you can tank it and use it point-blank - shut off your sensors and make sure you aren’t holding it, though, or it’ll take your fingers off.”

“That’ll kill, if you can drop it into somemech’s armor,” Jazz adds helpfully, not looking up from his own guns. “Not super-clean, but it’ll blow their ‘chamber clean open if you can get it under their chestplates. Mind the shrapnel.”

“Ah…” Skids gives him an uneasy look, at that, and then shrugs. “Or you could give that a shot - I’ve never tried it, but I’m not usually killing mechs.”

“To be fair, I sure as slag wasn’ expectin’ it either, first time I tried it, but I was kinda out of options.” Jazz shrugs. “Don’ worry - that was before Ratchet had had th’ chance to knock off some of my rougher edges.”

“Fair enough.” Skids nods. “Anyways - we brought some mil-spec stuff, too. Hot Rod’s got all the real heavy-duty explosives, and the training so we don’t blow our way to the Allspark, but I’ve got a couple of breaching charges for each of you if you need to get through a door in a hurry.” The magnetized, dimple-shaped charges aren’t unfamiliar to Prowl, but he takes a minute to scan the specifications Skids sends with them - he’s only used them a handful of times in the enforcers.

“Just less-than-lethals, for blast kit, then?” Jazz checks.

“I mean, you can talk to Roddy - he’s handling stuff like that.” Skids gives the Prime’sguard a glance. “Of course, he’s totally enamored of you, so I doubt it’ll be hard to talk him into whatever you’re after. Just don’t get blown up - we’ll never stop talking slag about you if you manage to catch yourself with your own grenade, whether it finishes you off or not.”

“Fair enough.” Jazz grins.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time they’re in the air with autopilot locked in, even Jazz has finished his - meticulous - check of his weapons and stashed them to his satisfaction. Prowl can feel a tension he hadn’t even recognized in the other mech dissipate as he re-arms himself.

>>Yeah, what can I say, Prowler.<< Jazz picks up on the thought, amused. >>I like my guns.<<

Bumblebee reemerges from the cockpit after another klik. “We’re looking good - should be landing around a joor before dawn, and hitting the city at first light. We’ll be timing it to the morning commuter traffic - should be plenty of crowds to blend in with.”

It’s a good plan - the commute isn’t as bad as the one in Iacon, Praxus is far more self-contained, but it’ll give them a chance to get away from the station with no one paying close attention.

“We’ve got to get you three -” He gestures to Ratchet, Jazz, and Prowl - “Into our comms loop, first, though. Ratchet -”

“This isn’t my first combat, kid - I’m ready for Blaster whenever he is.” Ratchet doesn’t even look up from where he’s carefully working another baffle under the plating of a - slightly squirming - Hot Rod. “Won’t take him more than a klik - I’ve had enough channels cut to make it easy on him.”

“Great.” Bumblebee nods decisively. “Then - Prowl, Jazz, Blaster will be with you in just a -”

::Hello, Prowl.:: The voice in his processor has a smooth, crisp clarity that even Red’s can’t match - it cuts through whatever Bumblebee is trying to say like a knife. ::Blaster, here, coming to you live from Iacon - and let me say it’s a pleasure to be working with you. Sorry for helping these fraggers mess with your messages - wouldn’t have done it for anyone else, I promise.:: There’s just a touch of amusement on the tail of that comm. ::And congratulations on the new _amica_ \- give me a few kliks to set up the general comm, and I’ll have that channel for you, too.::

::It’s alright.:: Prowl hesitates for just a moment. ::A… pleasure to be working with you, as well, Blaster. And thank you.::

::No worries!:: There’s just a hint of relief to the words. ::Anyway - you’ve got no other _amica_ listed, is that right? Do you remember when the channels with your brothers were cut, or…?::

::No. Will that be a problem?::

::Eh, not much. How about your enforcer channel - that was part of your adult upgrades? Any distinct memories floating around?:: Blaster gives a thoughtful hum that is so clear that it makes him jump - it’s as if the sound is coming from right behind him.

::No.:: He pauses for a moment to settle back into the seat. ::Ah - I remember having it transferred to Praxus, but other than that…::

::Nothing, huh?:: Blaster’s voice is kind and nonjudgmental. ::It isn’t a big deal - lots of mechs find their first new channel disorienting, though. How does this sound - I’ll repurpose the enforcer channels for Ops, so you can keep using the lines you’re used to, and then I’ll cut you a new one for Magnus?::

::If you think that’s best. I’ll defer to your judgement.:: Prowl considers that as he feels the faint, distantly-familiar buzz of comm codes altering, commlines being overwritten. It’s not unpleasant, just odd, feeling his coding changed at the hands of another mech. ::Do you know Ultra Magnus well, then?::

::Depends what you mean, I guess.:: Blaster laughs. ::During the War? Not at all - but he landed in Iacon like a slagging wrecking ball afterwards. I wouldn’t call us super-close, but, well - you don’t do the job I do without getting to know your city’s movers and shakers.::

::Fair enough.:: Prowl gives that a polite nod of affirmation that he realizes only a moment later the other mech can’t see.

::Yeah, it takes a bit of getting used to.:: Blaster chuckles again when Prowl starts at that - he hadn’t said -

::That aloud? Yeah, sorry.:: Blaster’s voice is rich with amusement. ::Rumors of my technopathy have been greatly underexaggerated. I’m not listening in all the time, I promise, but when I’m doing close work like this it’s hard not to pick up surface thoughts.:: 

::That’s… incredible.:: He does his best to push down his own discomfort, and realizes only a moment later that Blaster can probably pick up on that too.

::It’s pretty cool. And don’t worry about it - it’d be weirder if you didn’t find it unnerving, at this point.:: Blaster laughs. ::Wait until you meet my _amica._ He’s powerful enough to crack you open like a datapad from across the room - can read a mech’s surface thoughts from clear across Cybertron, if he can dial in on them.::

::Ah - is that likely to happen -:: He cuts off at the realization. ::Oh - you’re Soundwave’s _amica_?:: 

::Yeah, and regretting more and more every day that the fragger has Starscream to handle publicity for him.:: Blaster laughs. :: _I_ never had the world’s most attractive Seeker to build _my_ reputation, you know. I had to earn _my_ name recognition the old fashioned way - grit, hard work, and a radio show loved by millions.::

Prowl can’t hold back a wave of amused consternation - to his relief, that seems to have been what Blaster was looking for. ::Anyways, that should be good - give it a shot, try to set up a commlink to Mirage.::

It takes him a minute of consideration to figure out what each of the channels has been re-keyed to - Mirage is the easiest, though, the commander’s position, and Prowl sends a ping for acknowledgement easily.

There’s a few moments before the channel blooms open. ::Yes, Prowl?:: Blaster inserts himself effortlessly into the call. 

::Just setting up comms, ‘Raj.:: He explains. 

::Ah.:: Mirage pauses. ::Say something, Prowl.::

::Like what?::

::He’s coming through loud and clear, Blaster. Ident looks good.::

::Perfect. Thanks, ‘Raj - see you around.:: Blaster closes the link just as easily behind them. ::Should be good, then - let Bee know if you have any issues, but there won’t be. Red’ll come through and encrypt all that when he has a breem, and you’ll be good to go.:: 

::Perfect.:: Prowl tries to think appreciative thoughts, which gets him a chuckle from the commsmech.

::Just doing my job. Now - let’s see… Ultra Magnus. Here we go.:: There’s a faint wrenching feeling in his processor that makes him start - as if something has brushed across the physical surface of his commchip. ::Don’t worry, don’t worry - that’s perfectly normal. You’ll feel a faint ache for a few joors, possibly some slight disorientation for a couple of breems - it’ll settle out fairly quickly, and you’ll be good to go by the time you hit Rhaxa. Won’t feel any different to your brother’s link-ups.::

::Understood.:: Prowl can’t help but tense as the touch returns - this time more precise, as if a stylus is being drawn, sharp-pointed and exactingly, across the surface of his commchip. It’s suddenly obvious why it’s called _cutting_ the channel - that’s exactly what it feels like.

::Almost done, and - there.:: Blaster chuckles down the comm. ::All set - test it out.::

Prowl obeys obligingly - it’s quicksilver-smooth, reaching down the fresh channel to ping Ultra Magnus, and the enforcer picks up immediately. ::Prowl?::

::Blaster was just setting up the bond, Magnus.:: He can’t help but smile at the other mech’s voice. ::How am I reading?::

::Perfectly.:: Ultra Magnus pauses, for just a moment. ::I can’t speak right now, but… good luck, Prowl. And… thank you, again.::

::Thank _you_ ,:: he insists, but the channel is already closing between them.

“All set?” asks Bumblebee after another klik.

“Should be golden.” Jazz replies, and Prowl nods an affirmative.

“Great.” Bumblebee slides onto a bench across from them. “Ratchet, Hot Rod, you good to give me some attention over here?”

“Not quite - give me a few kliks.” Ratchet has a pair of forceps buried under the helm of a _very_ uncomfortable looking Hot Rod, who is doing his best to hold perfectly still.

“Alright.” Bumblebee gives the pair an amused look and turns his attention back to Prowl, Jazz, and Skids. “You three, then - anything in particular you want to get done once we’re in Praxus?”

“I’m good.” Jazz shrugs. “As long as Red’s got an optic on the warehouse, I don’t have anything that needs doing urgently, at least. Should probably pull the place down, if you don’t want to use it as a staging area, but, well - no one’s found it before now, so…”

“If you’re willing, I’d like to keep it available as a safehouse.” Bumblebee nods. “We’re going to need several, and it’s a good area to retreat to - very open, easy to lose pursuers, hard to get boxed in.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jazz nods. “There’s a set of pipes that’ll pop you right out behind - you an’ I are th’ only mechs that’ll fit, but we can run some energon over. An’ there’s already some medical slag for field repairs.”

“Perfect.” Bumblebee gives a satisfied hum at that.

“I had a number of hard files at my residence that should probably not be allowed to fall into Barricade’s hands.” Prowl offers. “If it hasn’t been done already, one of us should go and secure -”

::Taken care of.:: Red Alert’s voice in his comms is as smug as it is sudden. ::You’ve got nothing to worry about - I had a couple of… trustworthy freelancers visit to secure your possessions, once Ops had picked it over. All of your possessions are in a nondescript storage locker on the west side.:: He pauses. ::Except for the furniture. I didn’t want to make it too obvious that it had been cleared out.::

“There was a box of datapads under the berth -” he offers.

“Oh, no - we got that.” Bumblebee raises his own hand.

“And the set of files magnetted to the roof of the storage cabinets in the kitchen?”

“Got those too.” The minibot grins. “We are, you know, _professionals._ ”

“Fair enough.” Prowl nods. “That should be everything except a handful of hard-copy files in my desk at the precinct. They’re well-secured, but I’d like to retrieve them, if possible -”

“- because nothing’s well-secured enough if they have time to get it to a hacker.” Bumblebee nods his agreement. “Anything particularly valuable on them?” 

“Not particularly - a handful of analysis, nothing more. But they’d be useful to another tactician as an indication of my thought processes; input into any sort of calculation as to my future movements.”

“Wipe them if you can, then.” Bumblebee nods. “Once you’re out - Red, you can wipe his workstation remotely, right?”

::Of course.:: There’s a hint of amusement at that. ::I’ve already copied and deleted any files that seemed to have a more… personal touch, Prowl; if you’d prefer I brick the system…::

“Yes.” He nods. “Better to purge it all - professional analysis is more structured, less useful, but anything we can keep from them will make the job of an enemy tactician more difficult.”

::I’ll copy the files, then, and wipe it as soon as you’re clear.::

“Perfect.” It handles his only real concern, and that’s more than enough.

Across the room, Hot Rod yelps, and then scrambles away from Ratchet.

“Relax, kid, you’re all set.” The older medic gives him a devious smirk. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

“That was terrible!” Hot Rod declares, hauling himself onto the already-crowded bench next to Jazz - where there’s conspicuously not enough room for Ratchet to squeeze in. “Slag! So what are we talking about?”

“Well, I was just getting to you, actually. Both of you.” Bumblebee glances at Jazz and Hot Rod, who give him matching, devilish grins. “Prowl, are you going to be offended if I send your bonded undercover as a cheap whore?”

“Undercover?”

Jazz makes an indignant yelp as Hot Rod breaks into giggles. “I’m a fancy hooker, Prowler! Do you not think I’m at least a fancy hooker?”

“My fancy hooker.” Prowl grins, teasingly, and pats him on his knee. “No, I don’t mind. Why?”

“Well, Counterpunch’s current profile is…” Bumblebee waves a hand as if searching for the word. “ _Available,_ if you catch my drift. If you two wandered in off the street and said you had a _date_ arranged that he’d missed out on…”

“Even if he did frag someone off, no one’s gonna take it our on a workin’ mech.” Jazz nods thoughtfully. “I kin work with that. He a friendly-type we’re missing, or a slagger we’re glad ta be rid of?”

“Friendly.” Bumblebee grins. “He and Flipsides are - for this cover, at least - Carbine and Sightline, ex-mil sniper and spotter. They’re together, but not bonded - Sightline doesn’t ‘face, and Carbine plays the field.”

He pings both of them a file - a psych profile on ‘Carbine’, and a pile of notes on the Sightline cover. Prowl feeds the information into his ATS with interest - he can feel Jazz skim it curiously before returning his focus to Bumblebee.

“So we go in there, and no one’s gonna be questionin’ that two lovely spry things are lookin’ fer Carbine.” 

“Exactly. You should be able to ask around, at least a little - back off if anyone starts looking annoyed, I don’t want to lose track of any more mechs, but hopefully it won’t rouse too much suspicion.”

Jazz cocks his helm. “An’ if we find him?”

“If you find him and he’s not with Sightline… get him off alone. Like I said, he trusts Hound, and he’ll be looking for Sightline - make something up to get him to follow you. I’ll give you his command code - once you’re talking to Punch, it’ll be easy to verify you’re working for me and figure out what happened.”

“Sounds easy enough. If we go around joor twenty-eight, we should hit things at a good time - we can spend a few breems waiting in a club first, so there’s somethin’ ta track.” Jazz taps his fingers thoughtfully on the edge of the bench. “He have a favorite?” 

“Several. I’ll send you the list - you can scout them out beforehand, if you prefer.”

“Nah.” Jazz takes a look at the list for half a klik before continuing. “We’ll do th’ Goldmoon. No one will look at us twice, comin’ from there.”

Bumblebee nods his assent. “That will work. Then, next cycle, we’ll have Prowl visit the Precinct, provided you don’t turn anything up -”

Prowl hesitates for just a moment before raising a hand in a - polite - interruption. “I would rather visit the precinct first.” He doesn’t want to argue, but…

Bumblebee gives him a curious look - but he doesn’t look upset. Neither does Skids. “Oh?”

“If Punch and Flipsides have been identified as agents of the Prime, the gang would be far more suspicious of anyone who comes looking for them.” He meets Jazz’s gaze. “They would be detained, at the very least. Or killed.”

Hot Rod smirks at that. “They could try.”

Prowl ducks his helm in acknowledgement. “They could try. And I don’t doubt that the two of you could escape - but by that point, our cover is blown, and they’ll move to… liquidating liabilities. I’m fairly confident that they would be held at the Precinct if they were captured - let me go in and scout it out, and then insert Jazz and Hot Rod.”

Skids gives a considering hum, at that. “I see where you’re coming from, but… I don’t like it. The whole point of sending them in first was to limit the risk to you; if we find out what happened beforehand, I don’t want you visiting the precinct at all.”

Prowl pauses for a moment, re-running the numbers from that perspective. It makes sense, but… “Barricade would have killed me vorns ago, if he could have. He knows that I have a close relationship with Ultra Magnus, and kin among the enforcers - it would bring attention to Praxus that he can’t afford.”

“That’s…” Bumblebee looks considering. “My first priority, much as I hate to say it, is preserving the agents I’m bringing with me. But, Prowl… you think the odds are that much better if we send you in first?”

“I do.”

“I agree.” Prowl gives Skids a surprised look - so do the other four mechs. “What? He’s right. When you rerun the numbers assuming that Punch and Flipsides will be executed if Jazz and Hot Rod are recognized, accounting for the possibility that they’ve been detained as operatives or suspected enforcers -” He shoots Prowl his variablesheet, not dissimilar to his own, despite slightly different value calculations - “Prowl going in first will trade a limited risk to him for a potential significant reduction in risks to four other mechs.”

“You’ll be isolated, Prowl. If anything does go wrong - you’ll have to get away from the precinct on your own; there’s no way the six of us can take on a city’s worth of cops.” Bumblebee meets his optics. “You’re alright with that level of risk?”

“I am intimately familiar with enforcer pursuit strategy, and Red Alert will be able to interfere with their communications.” Prowl shrugs. “If it comes to a chase, they won’t be able to catch me.”

“Confident. Sure. I can work with that.” Bumblebee grins. “In that case - yeah. We’ll do it that way - once we’re on the ground and have rendezvoused with Hound, you head over, and if you think the road is clear after, we’ll proceed as planned with an evening insertion for Hot Rod and Jazz.”

“Understood.” 

“Sounds like a plan, then.” Jazz gives Bumblebee a considering look. “So - what’ve you mechs had a chance to find out about th’ Gabbros, so far? You must’ve gotten at least some reports back -”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They spend the next several joors like that - comparing notes, working their way through Bumblebee’s files before Prowl embarks on a nearly two-joor discussion of the various power dynamics within the Praxian enforcers. Once that’s done, Jazz pulls out a map - carefully working his way across the city, detailing by memory a double-handful of gang territories, deserted buildings, and drainage tunnels to use while navigating. Prowl feels like he has a whole new perspective on the city by the time Bumblebee has to head back to the cockpit for final approach - the sub-surface tunnels are unpatrolled, the dark twists and turns lethal for an unprepared enforcer caught unawares.

The landing is gentle - Bumblebee apparently an excellent pilot - and they disembark in their own colors.

::We’ll switch in the station, before boarding.:: Bumblebee explains as they drive towards the station at a sedate pace. ::Not that I think it will come up, but I don’t want any footage that might link us to the airfield - or to each other’s frametypes. Red’s already tagged us some blind spots, on the cameras - we’ll spread out in ones and twos, and meet back up in Praxus.::

::Sounds good.:: Jazz laughs. ::Dibs on Prowler?::

::That works. Ratchet, are you good alone, or…?:: 

::I’ll be fine.:: Ratchet grumbles a little. ::Not that I mind the red, of course, but I should go back in my own paint. I already checked with Red - he can change the ticket so I’m coming back from Iacon, and I can head straight to the clinic from the station. It’ll look less off than having me just reappear - and I’m well-known enough that there’s decent odds somemech will _check._ :: 

::That’s…:: Bumblebee takes a moment to consider it. ::A valid point, actually. Are you going to be comfortable travelling alone?::

::No offense, kid, but I’ve been dodging powerful mechs to get to my clinic since the days of Sentinel.:: Ratchet snorts. ::I’ll be fine.::

::Turn off here, then.:: Bumblebee instructs, and Ratchet, with a blip of his sirens, complies, heading down the busy side-street. ::Red - can you put him on a later train?::

::Of course.:: The smooth, amused voice replies. ::I’ll have him on the joor ten express. It’s two joor later, but he should only arrive half a joor behind you - it’s a faster train.::

::Sounds good.:: Ratchet replies. ::I’ll get the clinic all set up, handle any drop-ins, that sort of thing. Make sure I’m visible enough no one ties me to you.::

::Perfect.:: Ratchet, orders agreed on, drops out of the call.

::Bumblebee,:: Red continues, ::Have Hot Rod in the same car with Jazz and Prowl, please. I can use the transit to set up the encryption, but it will be easier - and more comfortable for the two of you - if they can drop into recharge. It will take almost a joor.::

::Understood.:: Bumblebee pings both of them. ::The two of you are good with that?::

Jazz waits for Prowl’s affirmative to respond for both of them. ::I ain’t thrilled, but we’ll make it work. Though I guess this is kind of your specialty, huh?::

::They don’t call us the Prime’s guard for nothing!:: There’s an excited amusement in Hot Rod’s reply. ::Don’t worry about a thing.::

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They break up as they reach the station - Hot Rod stays close, close enough for Prowl to notice when he pauses momentarily and flushes back to the vivid pink. Red Alert pings them only a moment later - Prowl drops to the green, Jazz mellowing to compliment him in warm browns, and they stride out of the blind spot having only missed half a beat of their stride.

::Very good,:: Red Alert pings back, approving. ::Third-to-last car - there should be plenty of space. Hot Rod will meet you there.::

::Understood.:: They make their ways through the press of bodies carefully - it’s slow going, even together, on the crowded platform. Still, the crowd thins as they reach the far end of the station, and there are a scattering of open seats available.

Hot Rod climbs on at the other end of the car and scans the openings. ::There.:: He pings a spot just wide enough for the two of them. ::I’ll sit here -:: And he manages to lay a hand on the back of a seat before another mech can claim it, swinging himself in - ::Nice clean sightlines, and an easy lunge if someone tries to stab you. How’s that?::

It looks like any other two seats to Prowl, but he’s not trained for specialist protection work. ::I trust your judgement,:: he replies, shouldering past another mech to make room for Jazz to follow, and he feels a satisfied flare in Hot Rod’s field as they move past him.

They don’t do much of anything until the train begins to sway underneath them - Prowl wraps an arm over Jazz’s shoulder, and Jazz leans into him slightly, but beyond that, there’s not much to do beyond wait to confirm their tickets. As the tender goes by, scanning their barcodes, Red Alert pops back up on comms.

::There.:: He hums. ::I have you aboard the train, and your seats. Let me know if you move around - if something happens to the train, it’s easier to find you if I know where to look.::

::Do things _often_ happen to the trains?:: Jazz makes a nervous little sound. ::I ain’t gonna lie - I haven’t ridden in one’a these since I was a newspark.::

::Passenger light rail is the second-safest way to travel per distance on Cybertron. Unless you’re travelling through the Sonic Canyons. Or to Tarn. Or over -:: He cuts himself off. ::Ah - well. The point is, you aren’t travelling to any of those places, so you’ll be fine, Jazz. I just like to be prepared.:: 

::Fair enough.:: Prowl can still sense his unease, though, and brushes reassurance down the bond.

>>It will be fine, love.<< And the word gets a flutter of delight that seems to do its job of distracting Jazz utterly. >>Red Alert will install the encryption, and by the time we wake up, we’ll be back in Praxus.<<

>>Yeah, I know.<< Jazz brushes back fondly. >>Thanks, Prowler. Love you too.<<

::What do we need to do for you to install the encryption software?:: Prowl asks Red Alert.

::Not much. Give me a couple permissions, and you can recharge - this is going to involve some root-level handling in your linguistics processing, but not much beyond that.:: Red Alert sends a handful of permission requests and handshakes that Prowl examines briefly before accepting. ::There. Like I said - it’ll be about a joor; I’ll wake you when I’m done.::

Prowl waits until Jazz has obediently dropped into recharge before following him down, the noise of the rail care fading away into inky, noiseless black.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time Red Alert rouses them, the railcar’s lights are offline - the distant horizon is aglow with the slowly rising sun, sending rays of pink light scattering through the crystal spires of Praxus as they approach it. Something about the image makes Prowl feel… vaguely nostalgic.

He nudges Jazz, who looks over and is enraptured. Something deep aches, down the bond, but it’s gone like quicksilver - Jazz doesn’t stop staring, though, leaning almost completely across Prowl to press his face to the glass, until they pull into the station and the awnings hide the spires from view.

Prowl supports him carefully, not letting him sway with the carriage as he checks the encryption software. It feels seamless - integrated perfectly into his own linguistic/comms interface - and he tries a quick message to Red Alert.

::Is this reading, Red Alert?::

::Yes.:: There’s a moment while the hacker checks his handiwork over. ::You should be all set. Even if -:: and Prowl can feel his dismissal even over the comms - ::even if someone were to intercept our signal, they’d get nothing in a thousand joor.::

::Thank you.:: He examines the encryption itself for a moment. ::What’s generating -::

::The randomization?:: Red Alert gives an amused purr. ::I have a colored-oil lamp on my desk. I simply wired a camera to monitor it, and set up a coordinate-based pixel-selection program to generate a thirty-digit number based on the aggregate of ten pixels’ hex codes on a second-by-second -::

It’s a dizzying degree of randomization, and, as his ATS begins trying to calculate the potential outcomes, he forcibly ends the thread. ::Ah. Thank you, Red Alert.::

He can feel Red Alert’s satisfaction at having stymied him, and lets the comm drop after only a little more back-and-forth to focus on Jazz, instead.

>>Are you alright?<<

>>Yeah - I…<< Jazz hesitates, scrambling back into his own seat. >>I - sorry. I just… I saw Praxus like that before, a long time ago… it’s part of why I never left.<< Jazz hesitates. >>She’s beautiful, you know? Even with everything.<<

>>She is.<< Prowl pats his shoulder fondly, pressing that affection down the bond. >>We’ll make her gleam, Jazz.<<

>>I can’t wait ta see it.<< Jazz responds, drifting off to contemplate that silently as they pull up to the platform.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They don’t bother meeting up before leaving the station - Prowl and Jazz head out to the highway, leaving Hot Rod to wander for another breem before he follows. Bumblebee is quick to send them a marker for their destination - a set of rowhouses on the far end of town - and manages to beat them there by almost a solid breem, Skids right behind them. They wait just inside the doorway for him, out of sight of the street.

It’s when he tumbles out of alt and enters that Bumblebee shifts back to his yellow paint from the garish teal-and-orange palette Red Alert had given him, gesturing them to follow as they revert their own chromeonanites.

::The whole building is ours - not under our names, of course. Officially, we’re renting - the houses on either side of us are unoccupied, but there are a couple of other mechs living here, so don’t make too much noise.:: He offers, guiding them up a narrow flight of stairs. The building is… not quite dilapidated, but old; there are rust stains blooming up the walls, and a sort of persistent oilyness. A couple of boosters are propped artfully on the table next to a dilapidated, half-collapsed couch on the ground floor - prime bait for anyone robbing them.

A cheerful green mech is waiting for them at the top of the stairs, leaning against the door to a side room. “Commander Bumblebee! Good to have you mechs here - nothing has changed since my last report in to ‘Raj.”

“Thanks, Hound - wish I could say it was good to be back, but, well…” Bumblebee gives him a grin, and the green mech replies with an amused snort. “Primus, I hate this city. No offense, Prowl - Jazz.”

“None taken, mech. I’ll try ta make sure you don’ get another tour of our many luxurious smelters while we’re here.” Jazz steps past the pair into the room, taking a quick look around as Prowl strides forward to greet Hound.

“Hello, Hound.” Prowl offers his hand with a pleasant smile - the green mech hesitates only a moment before shaking it. 

“Prowl.” His grip is firm, but not crushing. “And, ah - Jazz?”

“Jazz.” Jazz confirms, looking back over his shoulder with a grin. “Pleasure ta meet th’ mech that took down Prowler here.”

“We aren’t -” Hound starts, but Jazz just shakes his helm.

“Gonna have trouble? Nah, mech - business before pleasure, I promise.”

“Good.” Hound seems to relax a bit at that, plating loosening a little.

“Nice digs you’ve got, here.” Jazz makes his way over to one of the berths and flops down, crossing his legs and propping his helm up. “Cushy.”

“It’s practical - we don’t want to be anywhere somemech is going to be monitoring our comings and goings -”

Jazz just laughs. “Nah, mech - I wasn’ sassing you. This’s nicer than where I was living for sure - ‘s got real berths, an’ everything.”

“Where _were_ you living, by the way?” Skids asks, tossing his dufflebag up onto another bunk. Hound’s is obvious - it’s the only one with un-tucked sheets, and a metal lockbox underneath it. “I never managed to follow you back to any kind of house, as Jazz or Meister - got within a couple blocks of your warehouse before losing track of you once, but…”

“Eh, here and there. Friend’s couches, warehouse lofts, under th’ occasional bridge…” Jazz grins. “What can I say? I was a ramblin’ mech, till Prowler here came along an’ turned me honest.”

Skids gives him a doubtful look at that, and Jazz snorts. “No, really. There’s plenty of places to stash yourself if you want to get a bit of recharge, and there was a long time where I’d get cagey after -” He cuts himself off. “Well. Took me a few millennia to be willin’ to spend more than a night or two with a roof over my helm. Fragged Ratchet off to no end, I promise.”

“Huh.” Bumblebee looks consideringly at him. “Is that going to be an issue, in Iacon?”

“Prob’ly not - it’s been a couple centivorns since I’ve really had the itch like that. Worst comes ta worst, I’m sure Rung’ll be able to find me a courtyard or somethin’ while he carefully ‘valuates me to see if I’m gonna crack.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Rung.” Skids grins. “Eh, it’s not the wierdest thing in the world. At least he’s not bopping around in the vents.” The teasing grin he gives Bumblebee is met with a dismissive sniff. 

“At least he’d actually _fit_ in the vents, rather than whatever it is you do, _bulk._ ”

“Touchy, touchy, touchy.”

“Alright.” Bumblebee manages to flip himself neatly onto one of the upper bunks, where he’s got a commanding view of the room. “But - joking aside. Hot Rod, I want you with Prowl, if we’re sending him to the precinct first. Follow his lead, don’t get slagged; if you have to punch someone, do it in red and yellow, and you’re a Prime’sguard, not Ops, got it?”

“Throw myself and my commander on the sword so I don’t compromise the mission.” Hot Rod gives a thumbs up. “Got it.”

“Perfect. Prowl, try to make this an in-and-out - if you need to grab anything personal from the precinct, go for it, but only once you’ve confirmed our mechs. And try not to start any shootouts.”

Prowl nods his understanding. “Like I said, I have a few hard-copy files that are probably better off deleted - nothing more. I’ll take care of it.”

“Good. Jazz - take Skids, show him around the city. Whatever else you think is important that we wouldn’t have found on our own - gang territories, major hideouts, things like that. Skids, keep an optic out for secondary locations - I want to set up at least a couple more safehouses before we start calling Elita for reinforcements.”

“I can think of a few spots ta start lookin’.” Jazz gives Skids an evaluating look. “How d’you feel about sewers?”

That gets him a tight smile from the blue mech, but he gives a thumbs up anyways. “I’ll make do.”

“Hound and I will stay here and go over a few things, then. Try to be back here by joor twenty, or so, so we can get ready - provided everything goes well, I want the two of you -” he gestures at Skids and Prowl - “around in case everything goes sideways for _them._ ”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jazz nods, swinging his pedes off of the berth. “C’mon, Skids, we’ll start over by the docks -”

Skids follows him obediently out of the room and down the hall, the door clicking shut behind him. Hot Rod turns, grins, and gives an elegant, exaggerated bow to Prowl. “Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa how did this wind up so long? How? This may actually be the longest one chapter I’ve published for this fic - it just goes on an’ on an’ on… Which is why it cuts off like that at the end. This and chapter one will... probably be spliced and re-cut in the second draft, just because I like two 6k chapters much more than a 4k and an 8k.
> 
> That said, that’s mostly because I had a _boatload_ of fun writing it. Scenes with more than two characters have always been hard for me, and this one has seven, so… a lot of work, yeah! But I think it came out nice, and I got to wrap up some narrative threads that have been dangling for a while. And set up a couple new ones - The Talk was very much about Prowl dealing with Prowl things, and the Praxian arc is still going to follow him, but we’re going to see a lot more of Jazz’s complex relationship to the city now that he’s got a handle on his complex relationship with Prowl.
> 
> Which will lead in, at the end of… possibly not The Chase, but certainly by the end of The Kill Part II (which will be the next section of the main story) to Jazz and Ratchet’s backstory thing, I think! Oh god, there’s a lot of balls in the air at this point.
> 
> There are a _whole bunch_ of callbacks this episode, too - I’m curious to know what people recognize as we move things along. This is a nice part of the writing - when you’re sort of rolling along on your own narrative momentum, with enough of an established world to fill some of the smaller things in. I really enjoy that part of it - it’s almost as much fun as foreshadowing, honestly.
> 
> Next chapter, we’ll follow Prowl to the Precinct, and have our first real confrontation with Barricade since… what, The Clarification? TBH I can’t even remember if he’s shown up in person since, though I feel like he must have… Huh.
> 
> Anyways - let me know what you think! I really appreciate your guys comments - they give me the drive I need to stay focused! :D And thanks so much for sticking with me for this looongboi!


	4. Chapter 4

“So - what’s the plan, Prowl?” Hot Rod shifts to a new color palette - this one a crisp, almost-Praxian red-and-blue - as they walk down the stairs. He looks - not quite Praxian, but close, as he folds into alt - the lines are all wrong, but he at least looks like a foreign-framed local and not a foreigner. 

::We split up.:: Prowl pings him some brisk directions, and Hot Rod obediently heads down a side street, putting some distance between them. ::You shouldn’t _need_ to do anything - I will go in, greet whoever is at the precinct, and use that as a pretense to work my way around the station to holding. It will not be particularly unusual - it’s common for enforcers who have been away from their precinct for more than a few days to need to… ‘catch up’.::

 _Typically_ to reaffirm their cohort-bonds, but… well, Prowl has spent long enough feigning his relationship with the rest of his precinct. It won’t stand out for that to continue, a little longer.

::So - what _should_ I do, while I’m busy not doing anything?:: Hot Rod asks, trailing Prowl from a few streets over.

::Stay mobile. If things do go south…:: he trails off suggestively. ::I’ll need you on the move. Keep track of whatever onramp you’re nearest to - if I’m being pursued, I’ll try to break for the highway.::

::Got it. Get on, and catch up.:: Hot Rod’s voice is grinning. ::And if you can’t get away?::

::Check with Bumblebee.:: He pauses. ::Most likely you will need to enter the station and demand my release to your custody as Prime’sguard. Barricade won’t kill me - he cannot afford to.::

::Got it. What’s the plan if we find our mechs?::

::I leave, and we regroup with Bumblebee, also, I would assume. I’ll consult with him further when it happens.:: He doesn’t really expect to find them, honestly, but…

::Understood.:: Hot Rod goes quiet for a few kliks. ::Here -:: He pings Prowl a map overlay. ::I’ll follow this circuit - it should have me never more than half a klik from an onramp. I sent it to Red Alert, too - he’ll know where the best place is to send you for us to rendezvous, that way.::

Prowl considers the map thoughtfully. ::It’s very well-done.:: It genuinely is - cleverly set-up to take advantage of the set-up of the Precinct to allow Prowl to circle to meet up with Hot Rod on whatever highway is most convenient to him.

::Thanks! Ironhide taught me a few vorns ago - we do things like this for parades and stuff, to make sure we’ve got ways to evacuate Optimus. Uh, the Prime.::

::He’s a very informal mech.:: Prowl comments, and Hot Rod laughs.

::Oh, yeah - was he getting after you to call him Optimus, too?:: Prowl pings back agreement, much to Hot Rod’s amusement. ::Yeah - he hates being called by his title. But the Senators throw up a big fuss if you slip up in front of them, and that’s a nightmare, so we - the Prime’sguard, that is - try not to. It’s ‘unbecoming of the dignity of a Prime’ or something like that.::

::That’s fair.:: 

::It’s fairly annoying, is what it is. I don’t see why they can’t just let him be called what he wants to be called - I mean, he’s the _Prime_ , isn’t he? They should just be like, ‘Yes, sir, Optimus, since you’ve got a direct connection to Primus in your chest and all,’ and that should be the end of it.:: Hot Rod snorts. ::That’s what I’d do, anyways. Hottimus Prime, and everyone has to call me Hottimus. Or something.::

:: _Hottimus_ -:: Prowl can’t keep the faint squeak of disbelief out of his tone. ::Primus -::

::Oh yeah? What would you be?:: Hot Rod buzzes teasingly. ::Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it, everybody thinks about it -::

::I haven’t!:: Prowl protests, amused, but it’s futile. ::I don’t know - but it wouldn’t just be my name with ‘-imus’ on the end -::

::Come on, you have to have one!:: Hot Rod urges. ::C’mon, Optimus just got shot, the Matrix chose you, and you have half a klik to think of a new name before _I_ get to name you. _Hurry up, Prowlimus Prime -_ ::

::Nightstalker!:: Prowl gives in with a laugh. ::Nightstalker Prime. Or - I don’t know, anything that isn’t _Prowlimus._ ::

::Fair enough!:: Hot Rod’s voice is rich with amusement - if Prowl could see him, he’s sure the other mech would be grinning like the sun. ::I’ll get that put on a cube for you, then -::

::What?:: Prowl can’t help but ask, he’s too curious not to, at this point. 

::Oh, yeah - everyone’s got one. ‘Raj’s is ‘Spooky Ghostimus Prime’, Ironhide’s is ‘Blocktimus’, Ultra Magnus has one that says ‘Trucktimus Truck’ but no one’s had the bearings to give it to him yet - Optimus cracks up every time he sees one.:: That clarifies… almost nothing, but after half a klik Hot Rod takes pity on him and explains. ::Brainstorm - Warcrime Prime, although we had to have his conjunx make that one because he wanted to be Bombtimus - got a sand-etcher and spent like the first three orns with it making them. It’s kind of a tradition - you get one if you’re cool and work with Optimus.::

::Ah.:: Prowl considers that. ::Thank you, then.::

::Yeah, just - I don’t know, perch it on your desk before a meeting, or something, where he’s gotta look at it - he’ll break eventually.::

::Am I supposed to be… ‘breaking’ him?::

::Eh, probably not.:: Hot Rod’s tone is dismissive, though. ::But he’s too serious, otherwise - everybody keeps bringing him slag to look at, and he’s got to deal with all sorts of fancy mechs -::

::He is _the Prime_ ,:: Prowl allows, turning in to the Precinct, but he doesn’t push the point. ::I’m here.::

::Great!:: Hot Rod gives him a cheery hum. ::I’ll just be… you know, around here. Driving! I’ll stay on-channel with Red Alert if anything comes up.::

::Understood.::

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He doesn’t head straight to the cells, of course. He starts, as is proper, in the breakroom, waving a greeting to Livewire and a tall Kaonite that he takes a second to identify as a beat cop from the evening shift named Overhook before making his way over to the dispenser to pull a cube he won’t drink.

“Prowl!” Livewire, at least, is friendly enough. “Mech, yer back early! Thought ya were sup’posed ta be in Iacon?”

“I was.” Prowl nods, walking over to settle into a chair near them. “But I decided to come back a few cycles early. Bluestreak has been very busy since his promotion, and I didn’t have much else to do in Iacon.”

“Huh.” Livewire shrugs. “Thought it’d be hard ta get bored, in a city that big, but I guess ya spent a lot of time there already. See anythin’ neat while you were there?”

“A few plays, not much else.” Prowl defers the question with a wave of his hand. “I spent most of the first orn with Bluestreak and his new team - they’re fine enforcers. After that, I visited the temples, and the archives, but…” He shrugs, and the other two mechs accept that easily enough.

“Itchin’ for a patrol, then?” Overhook nods understandingly.

“Of course - though I have no intention of cycling back onto shift early. But… It will be nice to drive somewhere familiar. There’s another enforcer on my beat, in Iacon.” 

That gets him a sympathetic nod from both mechs - and awkwardness of the moment offers a convenient end to the conversation. “Anyways - I just thought I would swing by for a joor before heading home. Good cycle, you two.”

“Good cycle.” The pair fall back into their conversation as he rises and wanders off, not even noticing when he subspaces the still-full cube.

He counts his blessings as he makes his way towards the cells - there aren’t many other mechs in the halls at this time of day. Most are out on patrol or at home, recharging after a night shift - nothing like the hubbub of early mornings or mid-afternoon. The handful of mechs he does meet are ones he knows only passingly - he greets them, exchanges a few words, and moves on, meeting the minimum of contact needed for politeness’ sake.

He visits the training rooms next - they’re en route, and mostly deserted, except for a trio of fighters training grapples in one of the rings. He watches from the wall, near the door, for several kliks - but they don’t disengage, so he doesn’t disturb them, and after waiting, he moves on.

Reaching the cellblock, he steps inside casually, wings informally shallow.

Heliodor glances up from the desk at his entrance. “Oh - hey, Prowl!” The yellow Praxian’s wings swing upward in surprise. “Thought you were finally taking some time off!”

“I was,” Prowl allows. Heliodor is… inoffensive, as other Praxian enforcers are concerned - the mech is, at least, earnestly friendly, despite his susceptibility to bribes. “I decided to come back early - not to work, just to Praxus. Bluestreak has been very busy, since his promotion, and with Smokescreen still in Crystal City, I had few enough reasons to stay.”

“Oh.” Heliodor considers that for a moment. “Fair enough, I guess! What brings you down here, then?”

“Just visiting. You,” he clarifies, after a second’s thought. “Not one of them. I wanted to settle my coding a bit - see who was at the station at this joor.”

“Ah. And get all the gossip before you come back, huh?” Heliodor cycles an optic knowingly. “Well - I got nothing, honestly. Been dull as Pit since you left, and it’ll be dull as Pit till you get back again.”

Prowl snorts at that. “Nothing? Really? I figured you’d have more going on that Livewire, at least…”

“Nothing but drunks and petty nicks, as far as the optic can see.” Heliodor waves both hands in front of him, mirroring the curve of Cybertron. “I got to do rounds, anyway - want to wander through the zoo with me?”

Prowl acts like he’s considering it, pulling up the missing agent’s files as he does. After a moment, he shrugs. “Sure.” He feigns disinterest carefully. “I have a few breems to spare.”

“That’s the spirit!” Heliodor scrambles to his pedes with a grin.

The cells are relatively quiet - most of the mechs inside seem content to doze, or flip through their datapads. None look like Punch, or his cover - and none are minibots at all.

It’s almost completely uneventful, the conversation little more than mindless chatter, until they reach the last row of cells.

“Hey -” One of the prisoners - a lanky, thin-limbed Ankmorii sticks a hand out of his cell to wave at Heliodor. “What th’ slag, mech - you told me you’d get me -”

He’s cut off by the clattering slam of Heliodor’s nightstick against the bars of his cell door. “Hey, shut the frag up, why don’t you!” The enforcer gives Prowl a nervous glance. “You are in the presence of a _Senior Officer_ \- show a little _fragging_ respect!

“Wha -” The mech looks at Prowl more closely - and it’s only then that Prowl realizes that he’s so strung out that he can barely focus at all, his optical calipers narrowing and widening seemingly at random. “Oh - uh-huh. Yeah.” He shrinks back from the door to the cell with a stagger. “Frag. Well - don’t forget. You promised.”

“Sure.” Heliodor gives him another panicked little look, and gestures for Prowl to follow. Once they reach the desk, he turns.

“Um - that mech was a real tweaker, huh? They just brought him in - probably still working off whatever he was on -” Prowl nods his agreement, and Heliodor cycles his optics in surprise. “I mean, he didn’t know what the frag he was saying - it’s easier just to nod along sometimes, but I’m not gonna give him slag, I promise -”

“I am on vacation.” Prowl says, voice carefully flat.

“Oh. Um, yeah.” Heliodor seems disarmed by that.

“I would like to remain on vacation for the next three cycles, Heliodor. I would not like to fill out any sort of internal affairs paperwork.” He smiles thinly. “Think very carefully on your next few words.”

“Um…” Heliodor hesitates. “Can I not say nothing?”

“You can. I would encourage it.” Prowl gives him a pointed look.

“Um… have a nice vacation, Prowl?” Heliodor tries, and Prowl relaxes into a more friendly smile.

“Have a good cycle, Heliodor. I’ll see you in a few cycles.” Prowl pauses, forebodingly, and then lets his wings ease entirely in what he knows Heliodor will see as a properly friendly gesture. “It _was_ good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Prowl. Don’t be a stranger!” The yellow mech is already turning back to the cells as Prowl lets the door click shut behind him, but he doesn’t worry about it - this isn’t his precinct anymore.

::They aren’t here.::

::Oh?::

::No one has mentioned anything unusual, and I’ve checked the cells.:: He turns toward the bullpen, and his own desk, as he talks. ::I did the rounds with the mech on guard duty. There’s no sign of them - no minibots, and no one who fits Punch’s profile. None of the cells were blocked off, either - they would be, if Titanium was calling in a favor.::

::Perfect.:: Bumblebee replies. ::You’re still secure?::

::No one suspects anything. A little surprised I’m back early, maybe, but everyone knows that I’m too uninteresting to entertain myself in a strange city for long.:: Prowl pushes through the door to the bullpen. ::Heading to my desk, now. I should be on my way to meet up with Hot Rod in a breem.::

::Understood.::

There isn’t much activity in the bullpen - one or two other enforcers working on their consoles, but beyond that, the room is quiet, morning patrols already long-gone. Prowl nods a greeting, but neither of the other enforcers even look up except to grunt back their own welcomes - they’re not mechs he knows well, personally.

He makes his way over to his desk and kneels next to it. There’s not much to do - it doesn’t take more than a few kliks to wipe the datapads in question, and he’s collecting a few personal affects - a couple of crystal seeds, some trimmers - when another mech approaches - a distinctive stride.

He gives Barricade another moment to draw near before he glances up, then straightens. “Commander.” 

“Prowl. You’re back in the city earlier than I expected.” Barricade’s face is a practiced blank - but Prowl can see the curious, uneasy tilt of his wings.

“Yes, sir. I was planning to take the remainder of my time off in Praxus - I come by the station to pick up my trimmers, and a couple of blank datapads. Bluestreak wanted me to write up some notes on crystal-trimming - I brought him some seeds from my own garden.” 

“Ah.” Barricade doesn’t quite manage to keep the flicker of doubt off his face - it’s obvious that he’s suspicious, but nothing Prowl has said is at all unreasonable, especially with the clippers in his hands. “Your younger brother, correct? How is he? Fully-recovered, I hope?”

“He’s doing very well.” Prowl lets a flicker of genuine fondness cross his own face. “He’s made some close friendships in Iacon.”

“I’m glad.” Barricade considers that. “Is he visiting Praxus with you?”

“No.” Prowl ducks his wings in negation. “Too busy in Iacon, unfortunately - he’s owed some time off after the festivals, and his injury, so I was hoping to have him visit next vorn.”

“We’ll be pleased to have him, of course.” Barricade’s wings bob neatly. “And your older brother - I know you haven’t seen each other in a few vorns. Was he able to make it as well?”

“No - he was caught up in Crystal City.” Prowl keeps his tone conversational. “He will probably visit me also, as his schedule allows - he’s been called in for a lot of irregular projects, as of late.”

“Of course.” Barricade nods. “I had actually been hoping to catch you - a word in my office, if you don’t mind?” When Prowl hesitates, he smirks. “It won’t take long.”

“Of course.” He pings Bumblebee the moment Barricade turns away. ::Barricade suspects… something. I’m not sure what - he’s called me into a private meeting. Orders?::

::Can you leave?::

::Not without a commotion.:: Prowl considers for just a moment. ::I want to know what he knows. I don’t think he will cause me serious injury - unless he’s significantly more aware of our movements in Praxus than we have cause to suspect.::

::Then…:: Bumblebee hesitates. ::Play along as long as you think it’s safe. I want to know what he thinks he knows - but… don’t place yourself in any danger, if you can help it.::

::I won’t.:: Prowl agrees, and cuts off comms as he follows Barricade into the smaller room.

“So.” Barricade makes his way around to the other side of his desk, picking up a half-filled cube as he sits. “Sit, Prowl. I’m pleased to hear your trip went well. How is Ultra Magnus, these days?”

“Well.” Prowl sits, an obedient enforcer. “He sends his greetings.”

“Does he?” Barricade considers that. “Well, then. I’m sure the two of you had plenty to talk about - you were quite close, before you transferred, weren’t you?”

“We were,” Prowl allows. “It was good to see him again.”

“Hm. I had one or two of my… friends… in Iacon keeping an optic out for your arrival, to… make sure things went smoothly for you - it’s quite odd. They say they hardly saw anything of you at all.”

Oh. _Oh._ It all becomes suddenly _very, very_ clear to Prowl what this is about - ::Bumblebee - Barricade believes I turned evidence of his corruption over to Ultra Magnus. He attempted to have me assassinated upon my arrival in Iacon, but was thwarted by -:: _you kidnapping me,_ he doesn’t bother to say. ::- circumstances.::

He gives Barricade a tight smile. “I spent most of my time in the precinct. I… don’t have very many non-enforcer friends in Iacon.”

::Get out of there -:: Bumblebee returns, voice tense - ::Hot Rod -::

::He won’t shoot me - not until he knows what I’ve done.:: Prowl returns urgently. ::Threaten, maybe, but - hold steady -:: 

“And you didn’t even bother going out on patrol?” Barricade sneers. “Prowl. What did you tell Ultra Magnus?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Enough of the slag, Prowl. We’re both enforcers, here -” and Prowl is suddenly, pricklingly aware of the fact that he can’t see both of Barricade’s hands.

“Are we?” He asks, raising his chin and meeting his former commander’s optics with a narrowed gaze.

That gets him a snarl from the other mech. “We are. This is my city, Prowl - you cop to _my_ commands, not Ultra Magnus’ -” Barricade’s doors flare aggressively, and he raises the gun from beneath the desk. “So what did you tell him?”

“I am not working for Ultra Magnus, sir.” Prowl shifts a little, in his seat - Jazz can feel his tension, down the bond, and pings query, but he goes quiet when Prowl pushes >> _busy busy busy -_ << back to him - Barricade is bluffing, it’s an empty threat, but he still needs to _get out of here_ -

“Like slag you aren’t.” But Barricade’s left wing flicks - he’s not _certain._ “If not him, then who? Because it’s sure as slag never been me -”

“Oh, no - I’m not working for you, anymore. You’re right about that, _sir._ ” And Prowl grins, and bares his dentae, wings flared in naked threat, and says the one thing he can think of that might shock Barricade enough to drop his defenses.

“But that’s the thing. You just tried to use me, Barricade - _Titanium_ made me a better offer. He sends his regards.”

He has just enough time to register the shocked look in Barricade’s optics as the enforcer’s gun drops - just a hair, in surprise - and he brings his gun up, firing at his former commander even as he dives for the office door. It buys him the second of distraction he needs; as soon as he’s through, he’s transforming, reinforced fenders sending desks and datapads flying as he accelerates through the nearly-empty bullpen.

He slams into someone - someone _small_ \- as he reaches the main doors. He doesn’t slow down - just lets his suspension take the hit as he drives over them and keeps going down the steps of the precinct, ignoring Barricade’s shouts behind him.

::RED ALERT!:: He ignores Jazz’s panic, hot and fast down the bond, in favor of a mech who can _do something_ as the whup of sirens blazes behind him. Two, then three - then five, as two more enforcers slide in off a side street, nearly blocking him in as he speeds by - they pull a tight turn behind him, hot on his heels, but he’s faster - only by a hair.

Still - he pushes his engine to the limits, and calls again. ::RED!::

The commlink flares to life.

::I’m here, Prowl! Just establishing an uplink to the enforcer’s comms - I won’t be much use to you if I can’t hear what they’re saying.:: Red Alert’s voice is like a rock, an anchor against the rapidly shifting backdrop of the city. ::Inferno, monitor that - no, not you, Prowl. Turn right on Platinum Alley - they won’t be able to intercept you before the freeway.”

It’s a thousand meters to the road he indicates, and Prowl waits until the last second to turn before locking his front tires and letting his momentum carry him - the closest pursuer doesn’t recognize the maneuver in time, and has to keep going straight to avoid colliding with the mech on their heels. Prowl isn’t foolish enough to think he’s lost the mech entirely - he’ll keep going until the next free turn, and come in from the side a few streets down rather than try to U-turn and rejoin this pursuit - but it buys him space; a scant handful of meters, but enough to give him negotiating room on the tight street.

Platinum Alley isn’t a true alleyway - but it’s close enough, the narrow roadway boxed in on either side by buildings. There’s nowhere to hide, but the tight quarters don’t give the enforcers following him enough room to drive anything but single-file, staggering themselves in a zipper-formation but unable to double up for fear of oncoming traffic.

The commlink crackles to life again. ::The onramp is half a klik out, Prowl. You’ll be entering into pursuit - they’ve got six mechs half-a-klik and change out.::

::Is anyone going to beat me to the onramp?:: It’s the only thing that matters, at the moment - whether or not he’s going to have to caution for a PIT maneuver or box on the ramp itself. 

::No.:: Red Alert sounds confident, but Prowl takes a moment to consider the map, and sends him a brief ping of negation.

::I’m going under the highway.:: He doesn’t have time to explain - he’s already got the ramp in sight. As they reach it, he feints towards it, then corrects - sending the two closest units wailing up it before they have a chance to realize that he’s changed tactics.

The remaining three catch themselves in time - unfortunate, but not unexpected.

He makes a reckless three-lane dive once he’s through the underpass, ignoring the lights in favor of flashing his own - there’s a blare of horns, but he blips his siren and it goes silent. The other onramp is completely clear - he can hear the sirens wailing in the other direction as he accelerates onto the freeway, letting his own sirens blaze as other mechs scramble to get out of the way. Behind him, the three other enforcers pull on and strain to match speeds with him - quickly receding in the distance, he can see the rest of pursuit scrambling to transform and get over the divider, but the lead he’s bought on them is enough to put them from his processor.

He maneuvers to the second lane off the central divider, traffic splitting before him as mechs clear the road - doubtless there’s already a localized caution in place; the streets will be empty in a few kliks to allow the enforcers to maneuver. Two more hop on at the next exit - larger frames, too slow to catch him, but if the other three enforcers can pin him, they’ll end it.

He recognizes them, of course, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Whatever they are, they aren’t cohort - and right now, they can’t be anything but the enemy.

::Good call.:: Red Alert’s voice crackles over comms. ::They had already pulled the mechs in this area for the initial pursuit - you’ve got a little time before you’ll have to deal with anyone else. They’re trying to set up a kettle just before the E617 exit -::

::They won’t be able to. Not at this hour -:: He’s forced to swerve wildly to avoid a swipe by one of the units tailing him - ::They won’t be able to clear the civilian traffic in time. Where’s Hot Rod?::

::Ten kilometers back, and closing.:: Hot Rod is pulled into the conversation seamlessly; it takes Prowl a moment to realize that everyone is on the channel, listening in. ::Driving against traffic in the center-breakdown - I’ve got one enforcer tailing me on your side, but I blew past the rest. Do you want me to deal with some of the heat on you?::

::What colors are you running?::

::Black, no decals. I can go ‘guard, it’s your call.:: 

::No.:: He hesitates, a plan forming. ::I can lose them. And if Barricade thinks I’m working for Titanium -::

::That might give us somewhere to squeeze in.:: Bumblebee’s voice is considering, tight with tension. ::Slag. You’re sure on this, Prowl?::

::They can’t catch me.:: And he’s very sure of that - has the sort of intimate knowledge of the Praxian enforcers that will make hemming him in impossible. ::Barricade won’t risk ordering them to kill me, not if he think's I'm Titanium's mech - it would be war in the streets if he did, that or his own helm.::

::Stay black, Hot Rod.:: Bumblebee orders. ::Follow Prowl’s lead. Prowl - do what you have to; come back alive, with our mission uncompromised.::

::Understood, commander.:: And it feels _good_ to say that, with his whole frame straining and the whip of air over his hood. ::Hot Rod - get to the outer breakdown lane, and pull parallel to me. Do you have anything that can take down a rotary?::

::What?:: Prowl can _hear_ him obeying, though, in the distance - a roar of even more powerful military-grade engines as Hot Rod accelerates towards him. 

::Anything that can take down a pursuit rotary, Hot Rod! Like -::

::The three rotaries incoming.:: Red Alert, still steady, adds. ::More than fifty kilometers out, though - you’ve got at least a breem.::

::Oh, slag. Uh - yeah, I’ve got S2A kit, but - I can’t promise they’re going to survive the crash -::

::How many times can you fire?:: Prowl asks hurriedly. ::Enough for a warning shot, and to take all three down if they don’t back off?::

::Yeah, for sure.:: Hot Rod’s voice, at that, is more confident. ::Thirty-two shots; two eight-round racks with a one-second loading delay and an eighteen-second re-rack intervale - I can stagger the re-rack, though -::

::Perfect.:: Prowl gets a good look at Hot Rod as he manages to catch up and match speed with him - on the other end of the highway, with no enforcer able to catch up. ::How are you for time?:: The other mech is a speedster, not built for endurance, but - 

::I’m military _all_ over, Prowl. I can go as long and as hard as you need me to.:: Hot Rod’s tone is assured. ::So - rotaries?::

::Fire a few shots deliberately wide. Barricade will order them to ground if he has any sense - or they’ll land themselves; none of them have the sort of plating to take a direct hit and keep in the air. If not…:: It’s hard to say - he knows all of the rotaries in the department, and there _are_ only three - ::Take them out of the sky. They land how they land.::

::Understood.:: Hot Rod doesn’t argue.

::Without them, one way or another, it’s just a matter of shaking the other enforcers. We’ll need to keep driving until we can lose them - any ideas?:: He opens the floor.

::How good are you two a’ falling -:: Prowl cuts Jazz off as they near E617 - there’s a row of enforcers on either side of the roadway - they haven’t sealed the gap on his side, but Hot Rod -

::Hot Rod!::

But the Prime’sguard has already seen the threat - there’s no traffic in his lane, and he brakes, hard, whole frame juddering as he slams sideways into a drift - the moment his tires get traction, he guns, driving straight for the divider -

His missile impacts the barrier mere moments before he does, only meters behind Prowl, exploding it with a cloud of concrete and metal shards as Hot Rod roars through the newly-made opening and slams, head-on, into one of the enforcers pursuing Prowl. The mech takes the full force of the blow on his side - he’s forced sideways across two lanes, then three, before Hot Rod disengages, shrugging him off and accelerating to catch up to Prowl -

They blow past the other enforcers at top speed, even as they struggle to close the gap - the whole encounter over in a handful of seconds.

::Are you -:: Hot Rod looks undamaged, but - 

::I’m fine. I’ve hit way bigger mechs than that, before!:: Hot Rod’s voice is warm with excitement. ::Didn’t do more than scuff my nanites, dent some things - might need a new suspension if we’re gonna do much more of this, though.::

It’s good enough. Prowl turns his attention back to the kettle - the other enforcers are pursuing, but they’ve bought themselves a little distance, at least -

::We’re through E617, heading Southbound.::

::Choppers are a klik out -::

::Up onto the high line, Hot Rod.:: Prowl pings him the markers for the line in question, a trucking thoroughfare that goes over the main highway to allow shipping to avoid the commuter traffic - ::Get them off of me, then shake your pursuit and catch up.::

::Got it!:: Hot Rod rips away - a handful of pursuit vehicles follow him as Prowl passes the onramp, but the bulk stay with him.

::Sorry - Jazz, you had a plan?::

::Jump off the Chrome Street Bridge!:: It’s two kilometers away, but - 

::And then?::

::Interchange onto West Broad, then take the onramp to the Meridian Parkway!:: Jazz highlights the streets in question in his nav. ::It’s not too bad a fall - you’ll slag your suspension, but - eh, don’t worry about that. Skids and I are both over on East Side, headed in your direction - if you can get across the bridge -::

::Understood.:: Prowl partially transforms, just enough to take the damage on his knees and shoulders rather than his suspension as he swings his frame across six empty lanes and slams himself off of the side of the bridge - landing, with a thud, on Chrome Street. ::Slag -:: There’s shoulder to shoulder traffic because of the closed-off highway - he finishes transforming and sprints for it, ignoring the way his whole frame burns with overtaxation. 

He’s not particularly fast on his pedes - but he doesn’t have to go far; the interchange to West Broad is only a hundred meters away, and he’s falling forward into a transformation the moment he reaches it, fishtailing out into the less dense traffic with a whoop of sirens. The Meridian Parkway onramp isn’t far, and there are no enforcers waiting, but the highway isn’t clear of traffic, either. Both he, and the pursuing units, have to go more carefully - they can’t box him in, but he can’t accelerate to top speeds, either. It’s not ideal - but he’s only a few kliks out from the East Side Bridge -

His whole frame aches. He’s not at the limits of his endurance yet, but they need to end this - and he knows Jazz can feel it, down the bond.

::Rotaries are down.:: There’s a dark set to Hot Rod’s tone at that. He doesn’t clarify if ‘down’ means shot, or landed, and Prowl doesn’t ask him to. ::Making my way back to you, Prowl.::

::No - clear out. You ain’t gonna want to be involved with this - lose th’ mechs on you, an’ get lost.:: Jazz’s voice is confident, and Prowl pings an affirmative to back up the order to Hot Rod. ::Hey - Bee, bossmech - what’s th’ policy on infrastructure damage?:: Jazz’s voice has a forced cheer to it; the tension underneath is obvious.

Bumblebee doesn’t even attempt to hide his own. ::Anticipated civilian fatalities?::

::None.:: Jazz sounds confident of that, at least, and Prowl doesn’t doubt him. ::No dead cops, either, unless slag goes sideways.::

::Then _get him back._ :: Bumblebee drops out of the commlink before Jazz can reply; his forcibly jaunty.

::Roger!::

reads to dead air.

>>Coming up on the bridge now.<< Prowl syncs a timer readout to Jazz, carefully modulating his pace to ensure accuracy, and triggering the cut-off to his door sensors. >>Whenever you’re ready.<<

Jazz pings back his own affirmative, but doesn’t say anything - Prowl can feel his tight focus down the bond, and doesn’t interrupt.

He’s half-way through the bridge when a familiar - a _spark-wrenchingly_ familiar - figure shoots past him in the opposite direction - already tumbling through a transformation - and he can feel the wall of noise slam into him and receding in a thunderous dopplering. It’s enough to shock him into a tailspin - he’s not the only mech, it seems like all of the other mechs in the tunnel have slammed into _something_ , be it a wall or another mech - but that’s nothing compared to what it’s doing to his pursuers.

Jazz - _Meister_ \- is standing there, between him and them, the sound of his boosted sonics making the air around him _tremble,_ visibly, like heat waves off a sun-scorched street. The lead pursuer’s windshield is shattered, held in place only by the bulletproofing inside the glass - so are all of his windows, Prowl can see, as the mech transforms to _writhe_ at the noise. The other enforcers are in similar straights; even from behind - with all Wheeljack’s baffles well in place - Prowl aches to hear it. If any noise could pierce the roar, he’s sure it would be screams.

Then the noise is gone - or, not so much the noise; he’s just as deafened in its absence as before, the thunder of damaged cabling in his audials a constant ringing that sends white sparks scattering before his optics. It’s the strut-deep rumble of the bass, vibrating through his whole frame, that disappears, leaving behind a chilled numbness like encroaching frost. The exhaustion starts to catch up to him, too - the pinging ache of overheated metal shrinking as it cools, and worn belts rasping in their beds.

No one is pursuing him anymore - even absent the noise, half a klik of the sonics have left his former colleagues unable to _stand._

He transforms, obediently, as Jazz limps to him, prodding him gently down the bond - his tires are all but gone, frame too sore and numb to do anything but follow as Jazz takes him carefully by the hand and guides him between the groaning civilians, tugging him along when something code-deep urges him to stop, to begin assisting. 

He follows Jazz down to the river’s edge, and doesn't argue when he’s led into a drainage tunnel, nor when Jazz re-chains the grate and guides him deeper into the network of low-ceilinged pipes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! This was a lot of fun to write! We've got it all, folks - dumb humor, Prowl socializing awkwardly, and car chases - yours for the low low price of continuing to put up with me!
> 
> I really, really enjoyed writing the car chase. It was kind of tricky to pace, since Cybertronians talk much, much faster than humans, when they have to - but it was nice to see Hot Rod do some cool shit, and Prowl be good at that whole driving thing he keeps going on about. He's not the _best_ pursuit vehicle in Praxus, honestly, but that's the nice thing about being the guy getting chased - everyone else has to figure out how to stop you, and you, at the end of the day, just have to keep going forward.
> 
> That's, like, a koan or something. IDK, take it into the world with you if you want.
> 
> Getting to do a bit more with the Praxian enforcers was fun, too - I feel like we've talked about them a lot, and never really had much... context... as to why Prowl didn't click. For the record - even though they're not his cohort, that doesn't mean he's not their cohort! In the same way that Nightbeat made a cohort out of mechs without the coding, it doesn't have to be a mutual thing - he's part of the precinct, so they put up with him enough to socialize despite frequently wanting to stave his stubborn stick-in-the-aft helm in. But... yeah, they're not a super-scrupulous bunch, even the nice ones.
> 
> And we get to see Jazz be loudfriend again! Unfortunately, he hasn't had any mods done, and so (as mentioned... a couple times, I think?) he has to look like Meister to use it... but everyone low-key thinks Meister works for Titanium anyways, so... ???
> 
> We shall see!
> 
> As for the cube thing... So do you guys remember Omakes? That's a word that will make some of you tremble. Yes, I wrote an Omake for this, lord help me. Fortunately for Hot Rod and his "Trucktimus Truck" cube, he's talking to one of Ultra Magnus' beloved _amica_ in this scene, so... well, it'll be the top comment on this chapter, so just give it a read. Is it any good? Eh. Is it funny? Eeeeh. Did I enjoy writing it? Yes, so I choose to inflict it on you.
> 
> Anyways - feel free to let me know what you think in the comments! It's been a while since I wrote any real action, so I'd love your opinions! (Feel free to drop any worldbuilding questions, too - I'm really enjoying vomiting big infodumpy explanations of things into them!)


	5. Chapter 5

::So, ah - How badly did we just frag that up?::

Hot Rod’s voice is the first one to trickle back to Prowl over the comms, hesitant.

::Well, that depends.:: Red Alert’s voice is rich with frank amusement. ::Is anyone dead?::

::No…::

::Has our cover in Praxus been blow?:: Red asks leadingly.

::I don’t think so, but -::

::Are you, or any of your targets, freshly-conjunxed to a mech you hardly know?::

::What?:: There’s a blat of static from Hot Rod’s end of the comm. ::I mean - no! -::

::Then it went fairly well, as ops go.:: Red Alert laughs.

Bumblebee chimes in, voice gentle. ::A rough extraction isn’t that big a deal, Hot Rod. Vortex made it to the ground alive - he’s stable, and at Praxus General. Should be a couple of orn of recovery, and he’ll be fit to resume service -::

 _Oh._ That’s who Hot Rod shot, then - Prowl has to focus for a minute, to think of what to say -

“Vortex is an aft.”

“Huh?” Jazz, still mostly-deaf, glances over to him - ah, he said that aloud. He’s still dizzy, but he gives it another shot -

::Vortex is an aft.::

::Prowl!:: Bumblebee’s voice is warm with relief. ::Thank Primus - where are you? We know you got to the sewers, but we can’t get a good fix on you - ping your co-ords, Skids will come find you -::

Prowl does so obediently, but there’s something he has to tell Hot Rod - it’s difficult to focus around the ringing in his audials. It’s hard to even stand with his wings offline - he reactivates them, but there’s a burst of pain and he drops them back offline just as quickly.

Oh, that’s right. Pain - Vortex.

::Vortex is an aft.::

::You said,:: Bumblebee hesitates.

Oh. He checks his comms log - so he did. ::He’s… he likes hurting mechs. It’s _good_ , if you shot him - it’ll be harder for them to search for us, and he’s an aft.:: It’s important that he say that - Hot Rod needs the encouragement. 

::Yeah, he - I fired off a couple of warning shots, and the other two rotaries took off, but he just kept coming, so I tried to put one near him, and he just - he dropped right into it.:: Hot Rod gives a nervous buzz down the commlink. ::I mean, the next one was going into him one way or another, but I didn’t expect -::

::Vortex is… also very stupid.:: Prowl agrees.

“Some cutting commentary on your ex-colleagues, there.” The voice behind them makes both Prowl and Jazz jerk - Jazz twists and spins, half-tossing Prowl to the ground behind him as his gun comes up. Prowl, already off-balance, doesn’t manage to catch himself in time - he lands flat on the floor, and has to twist to see Skids, coming down the pipe behind them.

“Slag -” It’s hard to hear what he’s saying, but his hands are raised submissively, wings dropped all the way back as he stares down the barrel of the gun - “Sorry -”

Jazz lowers it as soon as he’s registered the other mech. ::Oh. Sorry - I’m pretty much deaf.::

::Oh.:: Skids carefully skirts around him to offer Prowl a hand. ::Pit - yeah, I’ve got them, Bee. You two look like slag.::

::Feel like it,:: Jazz agrees. ::Need to go to the clinic -::

He pings the whole channel with a map.

::Like Pit you are.:: Ratchet’s voice cuts in. ::Skids, get him to the safehouse, it’s closer. I’ll meet you there. Hot Rod, you get back, too - he’s going to need a fresh coat of nanites, and the only way it’s going to have integrated by tonight is if one of you does it, so Skids, I hope to Primus you’ve got a steady hand.::

::We’re not sending Hot Rod to scout out a gang hideout alone -:: Bumblebee interjects, and Ratchet snorts.

::No, of course you aren’t.:: His voice has a particular acidity to it that makes Jazz, down the bond, cringe. ::I’m going to patch my idiot up, and he’s going to go _do his slagging job_ , since he can’t even go _one day without -_ ::

Prowl relaxes as Ratchet begins to rant, and lets Skids half-carry, half-lead him down the tunnels towards the safehouse, Jazz trailing behind.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ratchet is already there when they arrive, spraying a coat of nanites onto a chastised-looking Hot Rod. Skids says - something, a greeting maybe, but Prowl just stumbles towards the couch, and the blue Praxian is quick to lower him down so that he can slump, exhausted, on the seat.

Ratchet hands the sprayer off to Skids, who obediently finishes the coat as the medic stumps over to them.

“You’re both idiots.” He announces. “Jazz - sit.” 

He doesn’t turn on the assassin immediately, though - instead, he drops to one knee next to Prowl, and places a gentle hand against his chest - Prowl can feel the hum of sensors collecting data as it slides over his hood. Ratchet considers that for a klik, before unspooling a cable, and Prowl pops open his diagnostic ports without waiting to be asked.

The medic’s mind is soothingly cool against his as Ratchet collects his diagnostics, and, a moment later, begins to disable his pain relays. ::You didn’t slag yourself too badly,:: he admits, grudgingly, after a klik. ::This isn’t going to be a single cycle’s repairs, though. You’re going to need new tires, a realignment - I can already tell you’ve probably shredded your breaks - probably a complete overhaul of your suspension, too, but I’ll leave that until I can get you in a clinic, and see what sort of hardware Ironhide can send me.::

::Thank you, Ratchet.:: He can’t help a groan of relief as the worst of the strut-deep aches fade, slumping deeper into the couch.

::Don’t thank me yet.:: Ratchet snorts. ::I’m going to have to work on Jazz, first - much as I hate to say it, I can probably have him back up and running in time for him to drop in on the Gabbros this cycle.::

::Good.:: Prowl nods. ::I’ll be fine - this isn’t the worst shape I’ve been left in after a pursuit.:: 

That’s not to say that it isn’t up there, however - it’s not the hardest he’s been run, but without being able to trade off with fresh enforcers, or fall back into the body of the chase… he checks his oil levels, then his coolant - both are low, but not yet critical, and he flickers gratitude down the hardline to Ratchet.

::What - oh, yes. You’ll need full flushes for that, as well - new filters, a new scrubber - I should be able to take care of most of it without too much trouble. I’ll let Bumblebee know that I need Jazz to make a run to the warehouse, tomorrow - I stashed some spare tires there for you before all this went down.:: Ratchet grumbles. ::Primus - the last thing I need is you blowing a tire and shredding yourself.::

Prowl hums wordless agreement, and, after another klik, Ratchet withdraws.

“He’s not too bad off - put an entire decavorn’s wear-and-tear on his frame, but nothing I can’t fix. I’ll work on Jazz, first - with a little luck, he hasn’t done anything stupider than tax his engines and blow out half his sensor grid.” The medic levers a glare at Jazz, who gives him a languid thumbs-up.

As Ratchet hauls Jazz to his pedes and up the staircase, Hot Rod trailing behind, Bumblebee takes his chair, dragging it a little closer to the couch. “How are you feeling?” His voice is gentle with concern, and Prowl takes a moment to haul himself upright before answering.

“I’ve felt worse.” He pauses. “Comm me? I still can’t hear very well.”

::Oh - of course. Are you good to debrief, then?:: Bumblebee opens a narrow channel - just the two of them.

“Yes, I should be - that should be fine.” Prowl pauses. “Can you grab me a cube and some coolant, first? Ratchet wants to do a flush, but -”

Skids says something - off to Prowl’s side, it’s unintelligible, but Bumblebee glances over and nods, and a moment later, there are two cubes next to him on the couch. He picks up the energon, first - checks the seal and takes a long draught before gesturing for Bumblebee to continue.

::So, how are you doing?:: 

It’s not the question he expected. “I’m well. As I said, there is relatively little pain - Ratchet believes the repairs needed will be extensive, but he shut off my pain receptors, and I am not currently in any significant discomfort.” He hesitates, realizing - “I’m sorry - I don’t know what is involved in an Ops debrief.”

::What would you do with the Enforcers?:: Bumblebee asks.

“Provide a brief oral summary of any significant events I was involved in during the incidence in question, identify any mechs who I could officially place at the scene if a search for suspects was still underway, and give a summary of shots fired and physical restraints employed in the apprehension or pursuit of a suspect.” Prowl pauses. “I can provide you with a more accurate summary in a few joors in written form, if you don’t need it urgently. We would generally do that if there were only a few enforcers involved in an incident.”

::A written summary will be fine; that’s typically how we handle things in Ops. If something seems urgent, you can bring it up without waiting to be addressed.:: Bumblebee pauses, as if to give him a chance to speak out, before pushing on. ::I’m more concerned with you. You just found out your former commander wanted to have you killed - how are you handling that, Prowl?::

Ah. It’s - in some ways, it makes sense - Ops is a high-stress, high-stakes field, and being more concerned with being able to reliably account for the processor stability of one’s fellow agents than the precise details of a mission makes sense within that context. “I _am_ well, Bumblebee. I have known for a long time that Barricade wouldn’t interfere to protect me - Jazz’s initial capture of me, and Barricade’s reaction to my cover for it, would have proven that, even if I had not already been aware.” Prowl shrugs. 

::That’s good.:: Bumblebee seems content with that, for the moment. ::We lost you for a bit, in the drainage vents - could you hear us?::

“No. I wasn’t aware of much until just before I responded to Hot Rod - and I lost track of what was being discussed shortly after we reunited with Skids.” He nods to the other mech. “The sensor damage was extensive, even with the baffles in place and my relatively short exposure.” Prowl hesitates. “You said Vortex survived. Were there…” He trails off, but Bumblebee gives him a sympathetic look.

::Any other enforcer casualties? Yeah.:: He pings Prowl a file. ::No deaths, luckily - the mech that Hot Rod slammed into is going to need a partial reconstruction, and the mech you drove over on your way out of the precinct will need some pretty substantial repairs, but beyond that… the bridge was the worst of it.::

“How bad?” He doesn’t really want to know, but he can’t _not_ ask.

::...Bad. Going through civilian traffic like that… Fortunately, most of the enforcers following you had to break off before the bridge, but there were a lot of other mechs. And that’s some real pervasive damage… nothing life-threatening, of course, but a lot of mechs hospitalized for more than a couple cycles.:: Bumblebee doesn’t sound too upset, but... ::And Barricade survived.::

“I thought he would.” Prowl hesitates, not meeting the other mech’s optics. “I… wasn’t trying to kill him.”

::I’m not going to judge you for that, Prowl.:: Bumblebee’s gaze is soft - with experience, Prowl thinks; this isn’t the first time the minibot has had this conversation. ::In the field, sometimes you have to make hard calls. Calls where you won’t have anyone else to fall back on, or any time to wait for orders - and you do what you have to do. Finish the mission and come back alive.::

The yellow mech is silent for a moment before he speaks again. ::What would you have done if I was in the room with both of you?:: 

It’s an easy answer. “I would have killed him. I wouldn’t have risked -” Prowl trails off, but Bumblebee is nodding.

::See? Any little thing can change what needs doing, Prowl. But…:: He pauses, as if to consider the phrasing of his next words. ::No one expects you to be a killer, Prowl. Not every mech has the spark for it, and there’s nothing wrong with that.::

“I’ve killed mechs before.” Prowl shakes his helm. “I’ve killed mechs, I’ve gotten mechs killed. It’s what tacticians do. Barricade is just…” Not _cohort_ , but he doesn’t know how else to explain…

::He’s personal. You worked together. He tried to have you killed, apparently, so… yeah, welcome to Ops. Life’s like that sometimes.:: He grins, bitterly, and Mirage’s words about the minibot’s surviving Red Alert’s purge come back to Prowl in a rush. ::I’m not going to sit here and tell you you’re not going to have to kill him - I can’t. Ops is like that, too - maybe you’ve got the only clear shot, maybe he’s got a gun to my helm, slag happens. But… we’re not going to make it some kind of fragged-up loyalty thing, or something. No one is going to think you’re disloyal for not wanting to kill your old boss.::

Prowl considers that for a moment. “Thank you.”

::Besides -:: and the grin turns a little more sincere. ::I think your conjunx has dibs.::

“Hmmph.” Prowl snorts in amusement. “Only if Magnus doesn’t get to him first. He was… _upset_ to hear of my treatment in Praxus.”

::Oh _Primus_ , can you imagine?:: Bumblebee relaxes at Prowls laughter, his concern obviously assuaged for the moment. ::He’d tear the whole city in half.::

“Probably.” Prowl agrees easily. “So - what else happened? The bridge -”

::Still upright and intact, mostly. I contacted Optimus - he’s going to send the Constructicons from Iacon as a… ‘humanitarian gesture’... from their Prime. Mirage is busy strong-arming a couple of the other nobles into a relief fund for the victims - I believe he’s going to hold some kind of charity gala later this orn.:: Bumblebee grins. ::He’s not terribly pleased about that, so make sure to ask him how it went.::

“Of course.” Prowl nods again. 

::We do try to avoid injuring civilians where we can, of course - I’ll have a conversation with Jazz, but honestly, this was _in extremis_ , and no one got killed, so I’m going to chalk it up as a successful extraction and call it there. Like I said - rough extractions are nothing new.:: He shrugs. ::Barricade is claiming it was a terrorist attack - obviously, what you said about Titanium spooked him, because he’s leaving your name out of it.::

“Of course he is. Titanium would ruin him, if he thought he had been crossed - Barricade won’t risk saying anything without his permission.” Prowl flicks his wings in irritation at that - or tries to; with them still offline, there’s an odd echoey sensation as the command tries and fails to execute. He spares them an annoyed glance before returning his attention to Bumblebee - and Skids.

“I would like to… brief you on some relevant procedural information, if I may. Sir.” He keeps his tone respectful, but Skids snorts.

::Don’t give me that slag, Prowl - you’re the better tactician, and we both know the only reason you’re not running this Op is because you’re too new for it. What do I need to know?:: 

Bumblebee gives him a _look_ at that that Skids fastidiously ignores, and Prowl ducks his helm in acknowledgement.

“A mass casualty incident like this is a major disruption for the enforcers. With so many mechs injured and off-duty, Praxus will be critically short on enforcers - a shortage that would ordinarily be met by bringing in aid from other cities to supplement the remaining officers until everything calmed down, as per our - _the_ mutual aid agreements between Praxus, Kalis, Iacon, and Crystal City. But -” and he raises a hand illustratively - “Barricade, for obvious reasons, can’t risk doing that.”

::He would expose his own corruption.:: Bumblebee nods. 

“No honest enforcer could miss it for long - and without their coding being transferred to him, they’d have no reason not to report it.” Prowl agrees. “So Praxus is going to remain critically short on enforcers for the foreseeable future. At least a few orns, while the injured mechs recover, but… understaffing like that runs everyone ragged. It will be longer before the precinct can run at full force, and…”

::That buys us time.:: Skids finished thoughtfully. ::Possibly a lot of time, depending on what happens.::

Prowl pings back his agreement. “The enforcers aren’t the only threat in Praxus, of course, but…”

::But not having to worry about them will buy us time to build a foothold in the city.:: Bumblebee concludes. ::I’ll get in touch with Mirage - and Elita. Crystal City has been busy, lately, but she may be able to spare us a couple of mechs if it means capitalizing on this.::

::Anything else you can think of, Prowl?:: Skids asks, sinking down into one of the chairs. ::I’m all audials.::

“There is the matter of… Titanium.” Prowl hesitates. “He’s a powerful mech. Influential, and… I don’t know how far the sphere of his influence goes.”

Bumblebee’s optics widen. ::You’re thinking he might target your brother.::

“Bluestreak is in a vulnerable position, as an enforcer. And… even Barricade was confident enough to try to have me killed in Iacon.” Prowl nods. 

::No - you’re right. Slag - I’ll talk to Mirage.:: Bumblebee’s gaze takes on a hard set. ::Don’t worry, Prowl - this isn’t our first time dealing with a potential threat like that. Your brother’s a sniper, and he’s got those two gladiators with him, right? How do you think they’d feel about some additional training with the Prime’sguard in an undisclosed location?::

::They would -:: Prowl can’t help the surge of relief at how _seriously_ Bumblebee is taking this - ::They would probably enjoy that.::

::I’ll see what can be arranged. He’ll be safe, Prowl - no one’s going to use him against you.::

“Thank you.” Prowl relaxes a little more at the assurance. “Thank you.”

::We look out for each other, Prowl.:: Skids’ reaches out to brush his knee reassuringly. ::But - that’s good to know. We’ll treat your identity as burned, for as long as we’re in Praxus - we’ve got a couple of Iaconi covers that we can give you. I’ll talk to Red, have him handle the corresponding datawork - we’ve got a little while before you’ll be good to go wandering, anyways.::

“Understood.”

::Which brings me to another thing, Prowl:: Bumblebee hesitates. ::I know Ratchet seems confident, but… are _you_ okay with me sending Jazz into hostile territory while you’re still recovering?:: His voice is carefully non-judgemental, but Prowl nods, anyways. 

“Of course.”

::Of -:: Bumblebee looks surprised at that. ::You seem… more comfortable with it than I expected.::

“Jazz is a professional. He will have Hot Rod for backup - I am confident that they won’t get themselves into trouble that they can’t get themselves out of.” He pauses. “And we can’t afford to waste time. We know they haven’t been apprehended by the enforcers - or, most likely, by Titanium - but if they are on the run, then every breem we delay puts them in more danger.”

::It makes sense on a tactical level, I can’t argue with that.:: Bumblebee meets his optics. ::But are _you_ okay with it?::

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Bumblebee’s optics widen a little, and even Skids sits back, and Prowl realizes - _oh._ “I’m an enforcer, Bumblebee. I’m a tactician - and it’s the role I was sparked and trained for, no offense, Skids. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to see a mech I care about put into harm’s way - I’ve been the mech who puts them there.” He pauses. “Jazz will have a powerful member of the Prime’sguard at his back, three trained Opsmechs as backup, and the best surgeon on Cybertron if he gets injured - I’m not worried about him.”

::That’s good.:: Bumblebee gives him a relieved grin. ::We’ll get him back to you, I promise. I need to go check in with Ratchet, and you look exhausted - are you going to be good to recharge down here, or do you want me and Skids to help you upstairs? We’ll wake you up before we send Hot Rod and Jazz out -::

“Down here will be fine.” He drains the last of his coolant cube, and sets it aside. “Skids, would you…”

::Stay?:: Skids clarifies with a smile and a glance at Bumblebee. ::Yeah, I think I can work from down here.::

::Thank you,:: Prowl pings back, as Skids shifts from his own chair to share the couch, gently easing Prowl sideways until he’s curled into the blue Praxian’s side.

::No problem, Prowl. We’ve got your back.:: Skids sends back, and his hand strokes Prowl’s insensate doorwing fondly until the enforcer, at last drops into recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! And that's the end of that - as with... probably the entire story for this section, Ops work is going to usually involve a chapter of set-up and mission stuff, and a chapter of post-mission debrief that's a little slower, but lets our boys start piecing together what's going on so they don't have to do a lot of talking in between driving hard or being sexy...
> 
> The same thing, though I won't be redoing it from the other character's perspectives, is going on with Hound, Jazz, and Hot Rod upstairs. Prowl gets two mechs because he was the guy on the ground, and because Bumblebee thought Skids' perspective as a tactics guy might be useful. But at the end of the day, Prowl is pretty much right - this is much more about checking that he's not about to snap/turn traitor/collapse into a weepy ball of self-loathing than it is about what happened; they've got the results so the how of it can wait a joor.
> 
> We'll join up with Jazz and Hot Rod, freshly-repaired and all set to go, for next chapter - which will be Jazz POV! Exciting - it's been a while! Which means it will probably take a while to write - but, to be fair, I feel like every time I post that it goes up the next day, so...
> 
> Let me know if you have any strong feelings about this format, okay? It's probably going to change a bit as we go on, and more in the second draft, but I'll stick with it for a bit and get a feel for it for the next story. And thank you so much for the huge outpouring of support last chapter - I'm glad you all enjoyed it, and I'll try to answer some more comments when I've got time tomorrow!


	6. Chapter 6

“Anyways!” Ratchet snarls as he leans back, giving Jazz a once-over. “If you come back from this little jaunt of yours in anything less than _pristine_ condition -”

“You’ll weld my aft to a wall an’ hang towels from it.” Jazz snorts. “Yeah, yeah… I ain’t gonna get slagged in front of th’ Prime’sguard, Ratch. Don’t know that my dignity could take it.”

Ratchet snorts. “See to it that you don’t. And you!” He wheels to look at Hot Rod, gesturing for him to turn - “At least Hound’s got a steady hand. _You,_ once again, look fine.”

That gets him a nervous smile from the Prime’sguard as Jazz slides to the edge of his seat. “We good to go, then, Ratch?”

“Tentatively, yes.” Ratchet steps back, to let him rise to his pedes. “I’m going to go get started on Prowl - if we’re _lucky_ I should be able to have enough of his sensory grid online by tonight for him to _walk_ , but I’ve got to see about his doorwings - thank Primus for that cut-off -”

The medic grabs the last of his kit, and grumbles out of the room, leaving Jazz alone with Hot Rod and Hound. Prowl is an inky exhaustion on the edge of his awareness - the other mech’s processor is heavy with badly-needed recharge.

“So.” The green mech is settled on his own berth, watching the show with wide-opticked surprise. “He seems nice.”

“Eh, you get used to it.” Jazz snorts, testing the flexibility of his joints through a series of stretches. The ache in his frame is gone, at least - sensors fully repaired, even if the sonics themselves are out of commission. With the arsenal Hot Rod is packing, he’s not worried about it. “It’s when he shuts up you’ve gotta be worried.”

“Fair enough.” Hound shrugs. “So - both of you are still feeling up for this, then?”

“I am!” Hot Rod’s enthusiasm is, as yet, undimmed. “Little tired, but that’s just from the driving - I should be good to go!”

“And I’m fine.” Jazz snorts. “Ain’t aimin’ fer this ta end in a fight, anyhow. Me an’ Roddy’ll pull out, if I think there’s any chance of us bein’ clocked.”

“Please.” Hound agrees. “Nothing you get is going to be worth a thing if we don’t have enough uninjured mechs to follow it up.”

“We’ll be fine. Ain’t my first time duckin’ into a gang hide - an’ it’s not like the Gabbros are a particularly hard bunch.” The gang isn’t small - not small enough that it’d be hard to get a few new mechs inside - but they’re one of the riverside gangs, dealing in drugs, smuggling, and helping the occasional mech disappear, not in street violence or mechtrafficking. “They don’ want any trouble they can avoid - worst comes ta worst, they’ll run us off and call it a joor.”

“I hope you’re right.” But Hound doesn’t seem to disagree, particularly. “From what Flipsides was telling us, they’ve got a lot of hangers-on who aren’t in the gang proper -”

“Down there? For sure.” Jazz nods. “Lots’a honest dockworkers’ll be pokin’ around fer less-than-honest work, an’ there’s always games an’ drink at a gang ‘hide. They ain’t gonna cause problems.”

“Good.” Hound nods. “Might be able to get some intel out of them, instead - if you don’t have to go into the warehouse proper -”

“We can ask, sure.” Jazz nods. “Polite thing ta do, couple a new faces like us. Doubt they’ll know anything, though - not if it’s anything serious. Gang won’t want the leaks, an’ workin’ mechs won’t wanna know.”

“They can’t make you testify to what you don’t know.” Hot Rod offers, and Jazz grins.

“It’s cute you think there’s anyone in th’ city worryin’ about havin’ ta testify.” But he shrugs. “More like no one’s gonna come after you in an alley an’ smash out all yer dentae if they know you make a point of not knowin’. But th’ same principles apply, I guess.”

That gets him a wide-opticked look from Hot Rod. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Jazz gives him an evaluating look. “You’re gonna be a tricky one - you look the part, but that accent - you sound like you went t’ th’ Academy in Iacon.”

“I _did_ go to the Academy in Iacon!” Hot Rod protests.

“Oh. Well… could you try ta sound poor?” 

Hot Rod hesitates for a long, long moment. “How’s this?” he finally tries. It’s… not a particularly thick accent - his pronunciation is too careful, the shift not something Jazz recognizes, but it doesn’t sound like formal Iaconi anymore, at least…

“That’s… good, actually. Ain’t gonna be anymech who thinks you’re a guttermech, or nothin’, but no one’s gonna peg you right off fer a cop.” Jazz lets his own natural accent thicken, a little. “I’ll do mosta th’ talkin, though - there’s a whole culture ta slag like this.”

“Fine by me!” Hot Rod agrees, relaxing. 

“We’ll head down ta th’ Goldmoon for a joor or so, then. You can get a little practice in, an’ that way, if anyone gets too curious, we’ve got a cover.” Jazz finishes stretching, and offers a hand to Hot Rod, who scrambles to his own pedes. “Unless you’ve got anything else to go on, Hound?” 

“Not much.” Hound, too, rises. “Skids and I will be in the area - we’ll stay away from the hideout itself, hit up a bar, or something. Bumblebee will be staying here, to coordinate with the two of you - keep him in the loop as you’re going, comm us if you need back-up.”

“Got it.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Goldmoon is a quiet little dive - Jazz has been there a handful of times before as Jazz, a couple of times under cover, and is familiar enough with the layout to set them up in a back corner booth where the cameras will have a good view of them after letting the bar staff know that they’re waiting for a friend. They keep the conversation light, in case anyone is listening in - but it’s late, and no one in the city cares about two buymechs waiting for a customer in a run-down bar by the docks.

After a joor, Jazz gestures to Hot Rod to rise, and heads back to the bar.

“Got stood up?” The tall, leggy femme - an Urharan, maybe - asks, sympathetic. “Can I get you a drink, at least?”

“Yeah - I’ll take a cube of somethin’ fun, for the road. Me an’ my mech here -” He glances over at Hot Rod. “- I’m payin’.”

“Comin’ up!” The bartender gives him a grin, ducking behind the counter for a klik and coming back with two fizzing, orange-and-red enjex. Jazz slides a twenty-shanix chip across the bar to her, and she grins. “Thanks, hon!”

“Ain’t no thing,” Jazz grins. “Jus’ gonna shake it outta our date-ta-be - he was supposed ta be payin’ th’ tab.”

“What’d you say he looked like?” Jazz rattles off Carbine’s description, and the femme shakes her helm. “Haven’ seen him, sorry - I’ll keep my optics out, though. Let him know you’re lookin’, if I see him!”

“Thanks.” Jazz gives her a bright grin, picking up the two cubes, and handing one to Hot Rod.

“Ain’t no trouble - us workin’ mechs hafta stick together. Otherwise th’ big, bad dockmechs just walk all over.” She shimmies her hips teasingly as she walks back to the wall. “See you around?”

“Maybe.” Jazz waves as he and Hot Rod head to the doors. “I’ll swing by an’ let you know, once we find him!”

“You do that!” She laughs, as the doors swing shut behind them.

Jazz subspaces the engex as soon as they’re out of sight of the bar, gesturing for Hot Rod to do the same. ::We aren’t supposed ta drink that, I guess.::

::Yeah - Prime’sguard aren’t supposed to drink anything that’s not out of a sealed cube.:: Hot Rod pings back his agreement, subspacing his own drink. ::She was nice.::

::Buymechs usually are.:: Jazz agrees. ::Not that she was sellin’, but she ain’t gonna make any cred tendin' bar without a winnin’ personality.::

::How did you know she was a -:: Hot Rod hesitates. ::Sorry -::

::Nah, mech, it ain’t rude ta ask. She’s got a good frame fer it, an’ round here, it’s good, honest creds - honest as you get, anyway. Not too risky, wit’ the gangs - they slag anymech who gets too rough with their mechs, so most of the really nasty fraggers ain’t gonna be lookin’ fer fun ‘round here.::

::Oh.:: Hot Rod considers that. ::I would have thought - with the slavers -::

::Nah - you ain’t gonna see that slag around here. Too many mechs movin’ through from outside th’ city - docksmechs’ll keep quiet about a lot, but they tend ta be straight-strutted when it comes ta slag like that.:: Jazz snorts. ::Last thing any of th’ lords want is fer word gettin’ out over th’ waterway that Praxus is a slaver city.::

::I thought there was lots of smuggling?:: Hot Rod asks, curious. 

::Yeah - but mech-tradin’ is specialist work. Ain’t like gettin’ a cargo vessel ta stick a half-ton of Sulflower in their draft - those gangs use their own ships, an’ their own crews.:: Jazz shrugs. ::Don’ bring it up while we’re in wit’ the Gabbros, whatever you do - ‘ccusing a buncha honest drugrunners like them of slavin’s gonna start a fight faster than you off an’ shootin’ a mech.::

::I won’t.:: Hot Rod sounds relieved.

::There’s gonna be…:: Jazz considers the mech for a moment. ::Not ta sound like I’m sayin’ the obvious, but these’re criminals, Hot Rod. You ain’t gonna…::

He trails off as Hot Rod shakes his helm. ::It’s all good.:: He grins back at Jazz. ::I’m Prime’sguard, not a cop - I don’t care about any of that. Just… I’m not sure I could keep quiet, if I saw… You know.::

Jazz grins, and claps him on the back. ::Oh, we’d _tear th’ slaggers in half,_ in that case. Don’ worry about it.:: He laughs at the surprised, wide-opticked look that gets him. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They make their way to the Gabbro’s hideout casually, not rushing. It’s not particularly well-hidden - a large converted warehouse, light and noise spilling out into the street, a handful of mechs idling outside smoking Cygars. Jazz walks past them confidently, Hot Rod on his heels, and slips inside.

The lower level of the warehouse is brightly lit, bathed in the warm orange glow of halogen bulbs. It’s set up with a dozen tables, and thinly-spread at this time of night - only three of them are filled, the rest occupied by just one or two mechs.

Jazz guides Hot Rod around the outside of the room, scanning the faces for any sign of their targets, and listening in as he skirts the tables.

They’re halfway around the room when a conversation catches his optics from one of the full tables, where a group of large frames - construction mechs, and a pair of haulers - are playing cards.

“- So we’ve gotta head over in th’ mornin’ and see how bad th’ damage is.” One of the construction vehicles snorts. “Gonna take all cycle - at least th’ pays good. An’ from what I hear, Prime might be sendin’ the ‘structicons -”

“Oh, we _all_ know how you lot feel about the ‘structies. Gonna see if you can frag ‘em, too, while they’re in town?” The hauler’s voice is deep and teasing, but the construction frame - some kind of crane - shrugs. 

“Frag you. Might try my luck - ain’t never been fragged by _six_ mechs before. Might be nice - you know, the attention.” 

That gets him a roar of good natured laughter from around the table - and a clap on the back from the hauler. “Slag, you’re ambitious! I meant th’ four o’ ye together - ain’t no mech gonna judge you fer wantin' ta tag some help in, Axial!”

Axial snorts. “They can get their own hot mess, Cartage. I ain’t gonna go through all a’ th’ trouble of seducin’ mechs just ta clang ‘em with my work pals.”

That gets him some more cheerful grumbling - but now that the crane isn’t flustering at their words, the conversation moves on.

“Pit of a thing ta have happen, though -” Offers the second hauler. “One’a our tenders got slagged in th’ initial explosion. Captain’s puttin' him up fer repairs, of course, but - man, awful stuff. We were visitin’ him earlier, and…” He trails off.

“Awful stuff.” Concurs another of the construction mechs. “They was haulin’ mechs all afternoon - nobody dead, thank Primus, but…”

“An’ no one even knows why they did it?” The hauler twists and spits on the floor. “Hope they slag th’ little terrorists when they find ‘em.”

“Pfft.” Jazz snorts, and the hauler’s helm swings over to peer at him. So do all of the mech’s helms - but Jazz doesn’t even flinch at the sudden attention.

“You got somethin’ ta add, graceful?” He settles a bit as soon as he gets a look at Jazz, who shrugs.

“Nah, just… funny how slag like that’s always ‘terrorism,’ when it’s th’ cops that can’t catch them.” Jazz flickers his optics with an amused snort. “My bet is it’s their own damn fault. Thinkin’ they can push over somemech with friends, if you catch my drift.”

“Probably.” The hauler snorts, and there’s a murmur of agreement from around the table. “‘Least callin’ it terrorism gets th’ money flowin’ - I’ll take pity creds from a buncha sop-opticked nobles over seein’ mechs turned out on th’ street half-repaired any orn.”

He kicks out a chair and gestures to it. “Go on, then - quit hoverin’. I don’ think I’ve seen you two ‘round here, a’fore.”

“Don’ think you have.” Jazz sweeps into the seat with a grin. “Oh - just a hand or two, then. Downy’ll hold - we ain’ gonna just give our creds away.”

“Pfft.” But the hauler flips a stack of cards onto the table obligingly enough, and doesn’t do more than grumble at Hot Rod. “No flittin’ round, ya hear?”

“Yeah - I’ll just, ah -” Hot Rod turns to grab a chair, and pulls it up behind Jazz with a grin. “I’ll just sit here, shall I?”

“Works fer me,” the hauler agrees.

The first hand doesn’t last more than a klik - it’s five-shanix stakes, so Jazz plays honest, not worrying about the creds. He loses, badly - one of the other players, the blue construction mech, manages to slide three cards out of _somewhere_ and take the round.

“That was clean,” chuckles Cartage. “So clean I ain’t even gonna get on ya about me havin’ already had th’ red Prime, so long as ya show me how you did it.”

That gets him a mischievous grin from the blue mech, who demonstrates the motion with one hand as he scoops up his creds. “Ain’ hard.”

“An’ you -” The hauler rounds on Jazz. “Slag, you for sure ain’t somemech I’ve seen ‘round here, or ya’d know ta cheat. What’s bringin’ you ‘round?”

“Lookin’ fer a mech that owes us a good time.” Jazz snorts, re-stacking his cards and handing them back to the dealer. “An’ a couple dozen shanix fer drinks, on ‘ccount of he was s’posed ta be payin’. Any a’ you met a mech named Carbine?”

“What, Carbine?” One of the other construction mechs, a wide-set bulldozer, snorts. “Yeah, we know’im. He’s a decent type - gotta watch that scope’a his, though. Little mechs’ve got fast hands, if you catch my drift. Ain’ seen him in a few days, though.”

“I think Tare was sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout him, actually - some kind’a fight?” offers Axial. “I dunno - he’s real gang, not just a hangabout workin’ mech, so I ain’t heard th’ full story.” 

“Hmph.” Jazz grumbles. “Think they’ll let me in fer askin’?”

“Cute pair a bits like you? No problem.” Cartage snorts. “Ain’t even gonna ask what yer there for.”

“I’d try askin’ round wit’ some’a th’ dealers.” Axial offers. “Tare ain’t here, right now, but they’re always up on th’ word.”

“Got it.” Jazz rises to his pedes, pushing the chair back in with a flirty grin. “Thanks, mechs - I’ll see you ‘round.”

“Hope so.” He gets a grin from the bulldozer as he helps Hot Rod to his pedes, and they wander off, leaving the group to their conversations.

::See what I mean? Down here, they’re open ta anybody. ‘Course, all of those mech’s’ve probably done work fer the gang - haulers like that’re great fer movin’ stuff in an’ outta the city, ‘course, but nothin’ quite sends a message like thirty tons of upset bulldozer as have decided they want a _word_ with you.:: 

::Fair enough.:: Hot Rod sends back, amused, as they head over to the stairs. 

“What’re you here for, then?” There’s a black-and-gold Praxian at the bottom of the stairs who meets them with a leveled gaze, arms crossed. “I don’ recognize you -”

“Ain’t that weird, seein’ as we never been here before.” Jazz doesn’t tense as the other mech looks him over. “We don’ want any trouble - we’re just lookin’ fer a friend of ours. Axial over there told me that some of the dealers might’a seen ‘im - it okay if we go up an’ ask?”

The black-and-gold mech considers them for a moment, then shrugs. “Start slag, an’ I’m gonna beat it back outta you ‘fore we dump ya.”

“Fair nuff.” Jazz grins, and ducks past him and up the stairs. ::See? Easy.::

::Easy,:: Hot Rod agrees with a grin.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The upper floor is quieter than below - there aren’t that many mechs milling about. It doesn’t take long for Jazz to select a target, pinging Hot Rod so that the Prime’sguard sees him - a small-framed fellow Polyhexian with tight, expensive-looking striping all down his plating.

“Hey, mech.”

“Hey.” The dealer glances at them, shuffling a rack of cred chips to one side as they approach. There’s a tank - the muscle - sitting next to him; the heavy-framed mech glances up, looks them over, and leans back, settling his gaze on them steadily.

Jazz stoically ignores him, leaning on the back of one of the chairs, though he doesn’t sit - Hot Rod follows his lead. “We’re lookin’ fer somemech. Thought you might be able to help us out.”

“I sure can.” The Polyhexian grins. “Dealer cut you out, huh? What’re you lookin’ for? A little spice? Some stims?” He reaches into his subspace, and pushes a packet of stim-cards across the table. “My treat, for two such… _pretty clients._ ”

Jazz can feel the way Hot Rod suddenly stiffens, his whole field curdling beside him - the dealer can obviously feel it too. His face takes on a guarded set - he reaches out to pull the cards back, and Jazz raises his hands, doing his best to diffuse the situation.

“Nah, mech.” Hot Rod is still frozen, so Jazz cuts in, giving the dealer an uneasy smile. “Sorry - we’re both clean.”

The mech looks like he’s going to say something, so Jazz leans in a little, glancing back at Hot Rod significantly before lowering his voice. “Kid’s from Nyon - you know -”

“- how it is.” Recognition flickers across the mech’s optics immediately, and he pulls back, sweeping the stims into his subspace. “Yeah - slag, mech - I’m sorry -”

::Don’t make a thing out of it,:: Jazz shoots to Hot Rod, urgently, and the Prime’sguard pings back acknowledgement and feigns an awkward grin.

“Don’t worry about it -”

“Nah, mech - tha’s on me - I’ll let th’ guys know not ta slag wit you, I promise. Ey - Goshen’!” An almost-white Praxian glances up halfway across the room. “Let th’ boys know - if th’ hookers come askin’ questions, they ain’ lookin’!”

Jazz can feel the embarrassment in Hot Rod’s field at that - he reaches back to tough the other mech’s hand placatingly. “Thanks, mech.”

“No, mech, seriously, I’m sorry - but, hey, you was lookin’ fer somethin’ - what kin I do fer you?” Hot Rod still seems off-balance, so Jazz keeps talking, taking the lead. 

“Me an’ Downforce, here, were lookin’ for a strappin’ mech -” 

“Ya found him,” blusters the tank with a grin, raising his cube. “Anytime, pretty things -”

The dealer cuts him off with the clang of a fist to the helm. “Shut th’ slag up, Stryker. Sorry, mech - you was sayin’?”

“A strappin’ mech _named Carbine._ ” Jazz favors the tank with a grin. “Though if he skips out on me like this again, I may come lookin’, _Stryker._ He an’ I an’ Downforce’ve got a little bit of an… understandin’ goin’, if you catch my drift.”

“Really?” The dealer looks surprised. “I wouldn’a thought it - half figured tha’ he an’ tha’ scope o’ his were ‘junxed an’ lyin’.”

“Nah - little guy’s not into the fun, so Carbine spends his evenings with us an’ his nights back home.” Jazz snorts. “Or that’s been th’ plan - up ‘til he left Downy an’ me sittin’ in a fancy little corner joint fer three joor with no way ta pay th’ tab.”

“Slagger.” The tank laughs. “Ain’t treatin’ you right, huh? Still - I’ll go ta bat for him, since I ain’t th’ type ta try ta knick another mech’s good thing. He ain’ skippin’ on ya - watched him slag two other mechs a cycle ago, an’ I don’ think he’s welcome back ‘til they get all the fuel off th’ ceiling.”

“He _what?_ ” Jazz spins one of the chairs around to sit in it, legs wide and looped through the chair legs, arms folded over the back. It’s not _at all_ the answer he was expecting, but he doesn’t bother to hide his _entirely reasonable_ shock as he tugs Hot Rod to sit next to him.

“I know, right? Wouldn’a thought it of th’ guy - thought snipers was supposed ta be stable, least all th’ ones in my unit. But yeah. Couple’a toughs thought it was funny ta give th’ little guy - Sight-somethin’, I dunno -” 

“Sightline,” offers the dealer.

“Yeah, that’s it - thought it’d be funny ta spook him a little. They start pushin’ him around, an’ th’ next thing I know Carbine’s makin’ down th’ hall like he turns into a slaggin’ _train_ and tears off one’a their helms.” The tank laughs at their expressions. “Swear ta Primus. So th’ other two start shoutin’, and one’a them gets a couple’a good hits in on Carb’ ‘fore he tears his arm off. Then th’ other one goes fer Sightline an’ th’ mech just slaggin’ loses it - an’ I thought he didn’ have much ta lose!”

“Primus,” Hot Rod whispers, horrified, and the tank laughs again.

“Sorry, beau - might be funnier if ya were army. But, yeah - he tears th’ damn fool apart, grabs his little guy, an’ books it.” The tank shrugs. “Haven’ seen either of ‘em since. Prol’ly they’re fine - like I said, ain’t no one gonna hold that ‘gainst them, long as they keep their helms down for a bit. Not like they was hidin’ that they was ‘ttached, or nothin’.”

“You checked th’ clinics, yet?” The dealer offers. “I know there’s one over on Yooper turf, an’ there’re a couple down by th’ wharfs that cater to th’ exmil crowd… Carbine wasn’ lookin’ great when they booked it.”

“What’s not great?” Jazz pushes, just a little - a worried friend, benefits aside -

“Eh - helm damage, mostly. All these street fraggers know how ta do is chop at yer helm, these days - think they’re real hard, bouncin’ their hands off a proper mech’s helm.” The tank grins. “Prol’ly hurt them more than him, but there was dents. One’a them bashed th’ mini into a wall a couple’a times ‘fore Carb’ showed up - he didn’ look too hot, but he was still on ‘is pedes ‘fore Carb’ tossed ‘im over a shoulder.”

“Slag.” Jazz whistles. “Sounds like a show worth watchin’. Don’ suppose either of you’ve got th’ files fer it?”

“Yeah, I got ‘em.” The tank grins. “Got a slaggin’ good seat fer it, too. Here - you got a pad?”

“Yeah.” Jazz pulls a datapad from his subspace, offering it up - “Thanks, mech.” 

“Eh, no trouble. Hope ya find him - he’s a decent guy.” The tank hands him the datapad back, after a klik. “There ya go.”

“Thanks.” Jazz grins. “I’ll let him know who ta thank when we do hunt him up, too. But really, mech - I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

The two of them walk off, leaving the dealer and his partner to go back to counting ‘chips - no one else even bothers to look up when they duck off around a corner, and Jazz jacks into the datapad. He skims the file - basically what the truck had described - and re-compresses it, glancing up at Hot Rod.

::Keep an optic out?::

::Got it.:: Hot Rod’s voice is softer than before, but his optics are alert, watching the rest of the hall as Jazz comms Bumblebee.

::Hey, bossmech.::

::Jazz.:: Bumblebee sounds relieved to hear from him. ::Any luck?::

::Yeah - we found out what happened to our mechs, at least.:: Jazz pauses, sending him the packaged file. ::Sendin’ you the video now - seems like a couple of mechs jumped Sightline, and Carbine slagged them, grabbed him, and ran.::

::As Carbine, or -:: Bumblebee’s voice is relieved. ::How angry -::

::As Carbine. And not very - you might even be able ta re-insert them, if you’re careful about it. Seems like pretty much everymech assumed they were secret ‘junxes, or somethin’ - no one’s gonna hold gettin’ aggressive like that against a military mech.:: Jazz considers for a moment. ::You want me an’ Roddy out now that we’ve found our mechs, or should we poke around a little, see what we can scrounge up? Ain’t no one to suspect us, currently…:: 

::And with Punch and Flipsides being out and clear, there shouldn’t be any reason for them to start.:: Bumblebee takes a moment to respond - doubtless conferring with the rest of the team. ::Use your judgement. If you and Hot Rod are comfortable proceeding… We won’t be able to act on this tonight, at least. Take as much time as you want.::

::Thanks, boss.:: Jazz slips out of that channel, and opens a more private one with Hot Rod. ::You good to poke around a little, or would you rather just get back ta base? I’m good with either - thought you might want some time ta clear your helm.::

::Thanks. I think I’m fine. I didn’t expect…:: Hot Rod hesitates. ::I didn’t expect them to be so polite about - well. Thanks for getting mechs off my back, Jazz. I’m sorry I froze up - I just wasn’t expecting -.::

::You did fine. I promise - I wasn’t bankin’ on you doin’ the talkin’. As fer the mechs down here… well, everymech hates gettin’ fragged over by th’ Law. Scumbags or no - it ain’t no thing to frag somemech else over, personal-like, but Nyon got done by th’ Prime an’ the whole Council, an’ no one wants ta be th’ mech ta follow _that_.:: Jazz laughs. ::Justice among thieves, an’ all.::

::Oh.:: The blue-and-purple mech hesitates. ::I wanted to ask - how did you know I was Nyonite?:: Hot Rod’s voice has that same anxious edge from earlier, and Jazz does a double take.

::What’d’you mean?:: 

Hot Rod shrinks back a little. ::I just… I don’t like to talk about it much. I didn’t realize anyone would have told you.:: He glances away, not meeting Jazz’s optics. ::Sorry.::

::Slag, kid.:: Jazz can’t help the surge of molten embarrassment, isn’t sure if he’s managed to keep it out of his field - ::Slag, Hot Rod, _I’m_ sorry - I didn’t know, it’s just no one pushes if they think you’re from Nyon -::

::Oh.:: Hot Rod relaxes a little at that. ::Don’t tell - wait, no, that’s stupid. Ignore me.::

::Prowl ain’t gonna think any less of you, either, kid.:: Jazz reaches out and brushes his hand against Hot Rod’s, all the comfort he can risk even in the privacy of the halls. ::Are you gonna be alright knowin’ th’ stuff’s around, or…::

::I’ll be fine. I don’t have cravings, or anything - it’s just… withdrawals were real bad, that first time. Took a couple orn for them to go away.:: Hot Rod hesitates. ::I don’t know if I could do that again.::

::Anyone tries ta make you, I’ll deal with ‘em myself.:: Jazz promises, with the heat of conviction. ::Me an’ half th’ mechs here.::

::Thanks.:: Hot Rod’s tone is still uneasy, though. ::Can we talk about… I dunno. Something else?::

::’Course.:: Jazz hesitates. ::C’mon - lets go back downstairs. We can see if Cartage an’ his mechs’ll teach you how ta cheat at cards -::

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cartage and his mechs seem _delighted_ to teach Hot Rod to cheat at cards - the cheerful atmosphere of the room seems to burn the troubled look from his expression, and they’ve been playing for almost three joors by the time the working mechs start making their excuses and heading out. Conversation is light - some spirited discussion of business around the Sea of Iacon, but mostly just easy socializing - and, while they don’t learn anything new, Hot Rod seems much more relaxed by the time Axial and Cartage get up to leave.

They follow the two mechs out to the street and wave goodbyes and they split off into the night. Jazz takes a klik to open a channel with Hound, Bumblebee, and Skids as they go. ::We’re free an’ clear. Think we might drive around a little bit before headin’ back - I wanna show Hot Rod somethin’ before we go.::

That gets him a ping of acknowledgement as he overtakes Hot Rod, flickering his tail lights in a ‘follow me’ as he turns onto the highway.

::Where are we going?:: Hot Rod asks, curious - his ‘accent’ gone.

::Not far.:: Jazz assures him. ::Just - we ain’t far from my old haunt. Got a real nice spot ta sit and watch th’ city - ain’t no mech gonna mind th’ two of us bein’ up there for a joor.::

::Sounds good to me.::

Hot Rod follows him to the wharf, transforming to hop the fences gamely as Jazz makes his way back. He stops when they round a warehouse, and stares up at the metal latticework arching over the river -

::You want us to climb _up there?_ :: He gestures at the container-loader with wide optics - ::Are you insane?::

::It’s not hard.:: Jazz ducks into a shadow and transforms, stepping back out a matte black form in the darkness. ::I promise. There’s a ladder.::

::What if someone sees us -::

::Go black.:: Hot Rod still looks indignant, but he obliges, plating going dark. ::No one will care - I used ta spend like every other night up there, watchin’ the stars. An’ this is an unloadin’ dock - th’ barges will have to enter the city first, an’ that means we’ve got th’ place to ourselves until just after sun-up.::

::This is ridiculous -:: Hot Rod protests, but he follows Jazz to the ladder with a grin. ::We’re gonna get in so much slagging trouble -::

::Nah, they’ll just blame it on me.:: Jazz grins back as he starts up the ladder. ::I’m incorrigable.::

It doesn’t take more than a breem to work their way up the ladder, and out onto the massive arm of the container-loader. There, moving is easier - there’s a maintinence walkway that leads to a platform at the very end of the crane.

Hot Rod goes still once they reach it - the moment he manages to look up from his own pedes. ::Primus.::

::Right?:: Even having seen it a thousand times, Jazz can’t help but stare out across the glittering lights of the city - the sweeping arcs of light that mark her bridges, the rainbows glinting where the crystal-shelled towers refract the streetlights below. The water is a cool black line rippling beneath them, wavelets eating the stars - and the city lights blot those out, too, unless he cranes his helm back to stare up at them.

He drops down to sit, legs dangling off the edge of the platform, but Hot Rod just stands, transfixed, for a long klik - there’s something fragile and longing in his gaze.

::Tell me about it.:: Jazz offers, and Hot Rod’s engine snarls.

::You’re kind of nosey, aren’t you?:: There’s a tightness to the words, not anger, but close to it. ::Not sure we know each other that well, Jazz.::

It’s obviously a sore subject, but… ::You look like you have some slag you wanna say, mech. An’ I ain’t sure you’re gonna find anymech better ta say it to.:: He gestures at the city, glimmering underneath them. “Only reason I didn’t live and die a guttermech skag is ‘cause I had a sigma too useful ta let me rail my processor out on stims.”

Hot Rod hesitates - but after a moment, his engine quiets to a low rumble, plating smoothing back. “Didn’t even know I had a sigma, ‘til I’d been with the Prime’sguard a while. The slag they were giving us surpressed it - and it takes a lot of fuel to get going.”

“Didn’t know you had a sigma.” Jazz rolls his helm back to look at the still standing mech. 

“Oh, yeah.” Hot Rod grins, and then raises a hand. “Watch.”

Jazz watches - and scrambles back, with a yelp, as fire blooms - wreathing Hot Rod’s fingers for a moment before the mech’s whole frame is engulfed in a flower of crimson and yellow fire. It burns brilliantly for just a moment - fingers licking away against the dark sky - and fades just as quickly as it came, dying down until only a few flickers wrap around his hand and go dark.

“Holy slag, mech - how’ve you not burned yourself ta death doin’ that?” Jazz demands. “Sigma or no, you’re still full’a th’ same flammable liquids as th’ rest of us!” He pauses. “ _Are_ you still full’a th’ same flammable liquids as th’ rest of us?”

“Yeah, but as far as we can tell, _I’m_ completely fireproof.” Hot Rod grins. “Or at least, we haven’t tested a temperature high enough to slag me, yet. Brainstorm’s had ideas, but… well, Perceptor took over testing before it got too dangerous.”

“Slag, mech.” Jazz snorts. “Now you’ve got me feelin’ inadequate. Tha’s a much cooler sigma than mine.”

“Yours is way more useful, though -” Hot Rod argues, but it’s with a companionable grin. “You wanna guess how many problems can be solved by going, ‘Oh, I know, I’ll _light myself on fire!_ ’? Not a slagging lot!”

But Jazz rolls his shoulders back, keeping his voice teasing. “Nah, mech - you’re looking at it all wrong.” He smirks at Hot Rod’s curious look. “If I had a sigma ability like that, I’d _only_ solve problems with it. I were you, I’d be th’ terror of th’ nobility - someone talks slag ta th’ Prime? Fireball! Petitioner runnin’ on too long? Fireball!”

Hot Rod snorts. “It’s tempting.”

“Slaggin’ good name for it, too.” Jazz grins. “An’ Hottimus Prime makes a little more sense, I guess…”

“Hottimus Prime is an _amazing_ name for a Prime - none of you know what you’re talking about!” Hot Rod laughs, and it’s a little brighter, the worst of the dark cloud around him burning away. “Yeah, ‘Hide thought Hot Rod was real funny, and when he -”

He cuts himself off, optics dimming a little, and then glances at Jazz. Jazz gives him a curious look, but doesn’t push, and after a moment, Hot Rod relaxes.

“I’m… don’t spread it around, ‘cause it’d put him and me in more danger if anymech knew, but… he adopted me. Before I joined up.” Hot Rod’s gaze shifts back out over the city. “I didn’t want to keep my old name, and… it was the one he had given me, so we made it official.”

He doesn’t offer his former name, and Jazz doesn’t ask.

“How’d you meet?” He asks instead. 

“He and Optimus were in Nyon, doing humanitarian stuff after everything - reaching out, letting people know that their Prime would be looking out for them.” Hot Rod grins. “I didn’t know who the Prime was, or what he looked like, but there was a bit of a hubbub and this big red mech with a hick accent who looked like he could do with being relieved of some creds, so…”

“Oh, Primus.” Jazz snorts in disbelief. “You _didn’t._ ”

“Try to rob the helm of the Prime’sguard _in front of the Prime?_ ” Hot Rod laughs at the expression on Jazz’s face. “You bet I did. He caught me with my hand in his subspace and threw me into a wall so hard my whole back crumpled. I was kind of scrawny.”

“Slag, mech!”

“He didn’t realize I wasn’t an assassin. I woke up in the Prime’sguard’s medbay a couple of cycles later - they didn’t want to make a fuss of me, and I guess somemech had caught stuff on camera -” Hot Rod’s look turns nostalgic. “I was terrified - didn’t know what was happening, and then somemech explained and I thought I was going to get killed. And then he walks in, and I thought he was going to slag me right then and there, but… he was nice. Told me that they were going to get me all patched up, and… and he just visited me, a lot. Talked to me - told me about a friend of his who had survived the same sort of stuff and got through it, and…”

He trails off for a moment, watching the city, the lights casting wistful colors across his face as they bloom into the night. “And then I was better, and he offered to, you know. Let me stick around.”

“Taught you ta fight?” Jazz asked, but Hot Rod snorts and shakes his helm. 

“Nah - well, I mean, he did, but that wasn’t until later. He… like I said, he adopted me. Prime sponsored me to the Iaconian Academy, and paid for tutors when I started dropping behind - I hadn’t ever had any kind of real teaching, but…” He shrugs. “Well, it was a lot of work, but… eventually I caught up. Got my diploma, but I still didn’t really have anywhere to go, and… I didn’t want to leave.”

“So you joined the Prime’sguard?”

“The army, actually - but…” Hot Rod looks away. “‘Hide was pretty upset, and - I don’t know. I guess he called in some favors, because I shipped out and the next cycle I got a terrifying comm from the _Lord Protector_ telling me that I was an idiot and transferring me back to Iacon on the next available shuttle.”

“Primus.”

“No slag.” Hot Rod laughs. “I’d have preferred Primus, actually, I think.”

Jazz snorts. “Yeah - that was my general impression of the mech, too.” 

“So, yeah - I get back to Iacon, and I have a really awkward conversation with ‘Hide, and then he drags me off to the Prime - that conversation was _even awkwarder,_ but I think he was mostly making fun of me - and that’s how I joined the Prime’sguard.” Hot Rod grins. “I love it, though.”

“It sounds like a good life.” Jazz smiles back, fondly.

“Yeah.” Hot Rod leans back to look down at the city. “Pit, it’s pretty up here.” 

Jazz hums his agreement, but doesn’t say anything - they sit quietly for a moment, and Hot Rod’s voice is quiet, when he speaks again. 

“Thanks for showing it to me. And, you know. Making me talk.” He doesn’t look at Jazz, but the assassin can feel the brush of his field, and reaches out to wrap an arm over his shoulder, tugging him a little closer as Hot Rod leans into the touch. “It’s just hard to think about, sometimes. To remember that not everyone’s gonna blame me for…”

He trails off, but Jazz nods, staring up at the twinkle of stars.

“Yeah, mech. I know what you mean.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hot Rod dozes off after another few breems - his field gone smooth and steady against Jazz’s side. Jazz doesn’t try to wake him - just shifts under him until his arm isn’t getting crushed, and curls against him.

::Hey, boss?:: He opens a private line - just Bumblebee.

::Yeah, Jazz? You two heading back?::

::’Bout that.:: Jazz hesitates. ::Me an’ the kid went ta go look at the stars - he had kind of a rough time of it.::

::Oh?:: There’s a touch of concern to Bumblebee’s voice, at that. ::Are the two of you alright?::

::Huh? Yeah. It’s just - I kind of stepped on a landmine.:: Jazz pauses, significantly. ::Roddy’s file says he’s from Iacon.::

::Yeah - he’s Ironhide’s, though we try not to let on -:: Bumblebee cuts himself off. ::Oh. Oh, slag - nobody tried to slip him anything -::

::Nah - he was fine. Fine with it, too - ‘til one of the dealers tried ta pass us some samples.:: Jazz sends Bumblebee a teek of assurance. ::Wasn’t a big deal, but he froze up - not bad - but I opened my big mouth an’ said he was Nyon, an’... well, he wasn’ expectin’ ta hear it like that.::

::Oh.::

::I didn’ know - it’s a good way ta get mechs offa your back, if you need to, no one’s gonna push stims on a Nyonite -::

::But he got upset.:: There’s a moments pause. ::Yeah - I’m looking at his file, it’s under medical. I’ll add a tag - slag, I’m sorry about that. Is he -::

::He’s fine.:: Jazz strokes Hot Rod’s helm gently, and the Prime’sguard makes a soft, appreciative churr in his sleep. ::Like I said, we were watchin’ the stars. He’s kind of dozed off, now, though - I wanted ta ask, would you be all right wit’ us headin’ back in the morning? An’ - an’ maybe not mentionin’ it to him, when we get there?::

::Yeah, that’s fine.:: Bumblebee pauses. ::Thanks for looking out for him.::

::Ain’t no thing, Bossmech.:: Jazz chuckles, letting his own optics darken. ::No thing.::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wee! Getting experimental all up in this!
> 
> So, I realize that I may have written some stuff on Hot Rod’s past that contradicts this on specific points, first off. I’m gonna ask y’all to politely ignore if I did, because this is a newer idea I decided to work with after I decided to have Hot Rod be a more major part of the story - initially, I had planned for him to only show up in that one scene with Hound, and then I kept using him b/c I love him, and so now he gets a real backstory and everything. I’ll bring the whole story into conformance during the second draft, and I don’t think I changed anything too dramatic - at most I think I had him mention he was from Nyon, which he obviously wouldn’t have mentioned. Other than that, everything from before is still accurate.
> 
> And this is going to be kind of a fun one! Speculation on what happened in Nyon is welcome - I’d love to hear what you guys are thinking, since I know it was kind of vague in this chapter! It’s one of those weird things where _everyone_ in-universe knows what’s up - it was a massive scandal when it happened - but that means that you guys (the readers) don’t necessarily get an ‘as you know, Bob’ explanation. I’m planning to leave it a bit vague, at least unless I write a Hot Rod origin story, so… like I said, I’d love to hear what you guys think happened! 
> 
> And we have our mechs! Or at least - we know what happened to them. Obviously, the question now is _why haven’t they commed_ \- but that’s a question for next chapter! Regardless - good job, Jazz! Good job, Hot Rod! You did it! Don't worry, though - I promise, this isn't the last we've seen of the 'sexy prostitute' cover story, though I should probably work more of that in. IDK I'm not very good at writing people being sexy as it turns out.
> 
> Also, Axial is probably my favorite OC ever. In this world, as you might be able to tell, the Constructicons aren’t naughty crime lads - they’re the _hottest_ thing in construction-work, a near-mythic, devastatingly (Devastatoringly?) sexy green-and-purple titan of industry. Needless to say, I admire his ambition - b/c Axial is 100% down to climb that combiner _like a tree._ TBH I really enjoyed writing all of the OCs in this section - they’re probably never gonna crop up again, so I didn’t want to use canon characters and rule myself out of using them in the future, but I think these faceless lads worked pretty well.
> 
> One last thing - the crane they were sitting on was a giant, cybertronian-sized one of these: https://www.liebherr.com/shared/media/maritime-cranes/images/lcc/sts/liebherr-ship-to-shore-container-crane-capetown_img_560x375.jpg 
> 
> They're used to on- and off-load cargo containers from freighters - they're massive. (that container is around 13m (40ft) long; cybertronian ones are, understandably, much larger.) Jazz and Hot Rod are probably like a hundred meters in the air, at least.
> 
> Anyways, your thoughts are always appreciated! I have a sneaking suspicion that this whole story is gonna get whacked hard by the editing stick in post, but, hey - that's fun, too! And thank you to everyone who gave me their thoughts on last chapter!


	7. Chapter 7

It’s joor ten by the time they make it back to the hideout - the sun well-risen, scattering light across the city streets. By the time Jazz pushes open the door, the others are already up - scattered around the living room table, cubes in hand.

Prowl - fully repaired, bright opticked, and now a hideous teal-and-bronze - tosses him a cube with an easy flick of the wrist. Jazz catches it out of the air and scans it before popping the lid and edging around the table to curl into his side. >>Hey, Prowler.<<

>> _Chiastol_ , for the moment. Hey yourself. Long night?<<

>>Not too bad.<< He sidles his way around the table until he can settle in next to Prowl. >>Bit of excitement, no big deal. Got ta watch the stars - real nice.<<

>>I’m glad.<< Prowl leans in, hooks a finger around one of his sensor horns, and pulls him close enough to press a kiss to his forehelm . >>Love you.<<

Jazz flusters, optics going bright, as Hot Rod lets out an outraged croak. “Hey - no kissing!” His plating fluffs up, but the indignance is obviously faked - Jazz can feel his amusement in his field from across the room. “No kissing! Can they do that?”

Ratchet snorts. “You can stop ‘em, kid. I ain’t gonna try.”

“Maybe I will.” It takes him a moment of wiggling to work his way around the table - Prowl pulls back with wide, innocent optics as he gets close, but Hot Rod just glares and settles down between them - half on top of them, and Jazz is forced to groan at the weight and scootch over.

They shuffle on the couch until there’s enough room for all three of them - Hot Rod in the middle, Prowl on one side, Jazz half-curled on the other.

“You three good?” Bumblebee gives them an unimpressed look.

“Great! Um, sir.” Hot Rod, at least, has the decency to look abashed. Prowl, on the other hand, gives the minibot a look of mulish amusement. 

“I suppose.” But he wraps his arm around Hot Rod’s shoulder fondly.

“Wonderful.” Bumblebee’s lips flicker with the start of what might be a smirk. “Anyways. On to business, if no one minds. Let’s go over what we managed to find out yesterday, and,” he ducks his helm to Jazz, Prowl, and Hot Rod, “feel free to just chime in if anything sticks out to you. We don’t generally hold to formality during meetings like that - not on-mission, anyways.”

“Understood.” Prowl’s free wing flickers in acknowledgement, and Jazz dips his helm, too.

“Got it, bossmech.”

“So - Prowl. You managed to establish that Punch and Flipsides were not currently being held prisoner by the enforcers?” It’s less a question than a request for elaboration, but Prowl nods.

“I did. If they had been - even held somewhere I couldn’t have accessed - I am confident that Barricade would have attempted to use them to leverage information out of me.” Prowl shrugs. “My cover as Prowl in Praxus is blown - any assistance we might have sought through my enforcer connections is gone. I would not have advised relying on it, anyways - too many of the enforcers are loyal to Barricade, and even those who aren’t have no loyalty to me.”

“Anyone that _we_ might be able to use?” Skids looks intrigued. “Mechs who maybe aren’t so fond of the current state of affairs - or even who just hate Barricade enough to take a cred chip to sell him out?”

“There… might be.” Prowl looks considering, at that. “None I would trust offhand, even if you were paying them. But for specific tasks… There are a few I can think of, who might be willing to do an unnamed mech a favor in exchange for a large pile of shanix.”

“Well - good news. We _specialize_ in large piles of shanix - when the situation warrants.” Skids grins. “Shoot me some names, when you have the time.”

Prowl nods affirmation.

“Anything else worth noting, Prowl?” Bumblebee prompts.

“Not much of note.” Prowl shrugs. “Whatever trail there may be, it doesn’t run through the precinct.”

“Alright. Jazz, Hot Rod?”

“Well - we found out why they left the Gabbros, at least. Nothin’ on where they might’ve went - ‘cept they were both injured an’ running, so a couple of our contacts suggested they might’ve hit a clinic for repairs. Mentioned you -” Ratchet grins and raises his cube - “An’ a couple other places as specialize in ex-mil mecha, but nothin’ concrete. Good news is, none’a the Gabbros seemed that slagged ‘bout all the murderin’, so they ain’t gonna be hunting our mechs in th’ street - mech who told us what happened sounded like he expected ‘em back, even.”

“We’ll consider re-insertion once we’ve _found_ them. Though I can’t say I like the idea of putting them back in a burned cover -” Bumblebee hesitates, and Jazz shrugs. 

“Ain’t like they really burned it - no sign they blew their identities until after they were gone, an’ I’ll be honest - rippin’ a mech’s helm off like that? Mech’s’re gonna think a lot of things, an’ none of them’s ‘cop’.” He mulls it over for a moment, chewing on the thought. “My only worry’d be if th’ mechs they killed had many friends. Seemed like ‘secret ‘junxes’ was th’ agreed upon reasonin’, an’ that paints a big target on your mech Flipsides if someone decides ta get even.”

“That’s true.” Bumblebee pauses, considering.

“Much as I hate to say it - is there any chance they got… you know? Picked up by slavers?” Hot Rod hesitates at the dark look that crosses Bumblebee’s optics. “I mean - I know Jazz said that they don’t usually work the docks, but…”

“Unlikely.” Prowl answers before Jazz can, wing canting up. “Slavers don’t like random prey. It may seem that way, but they are rarely opportunistic - at least, not ones who work for organized crime. A single mech might be able to get away with grabbing a weak mech or two off of the streets - but larger productions require… standardization. They tend to have hunting grounds, picking off members of specific professions, working their way through an area until their preferred prey begin to become too wary - then they move on, rotating through a number of neighborhoods. Punch and Flipsides, even injured, would have made poor targets - no way of knowing if they had powerful friends, or even if the mechs who injured them might come looking to finish the job.”

That gets him surprised looks from around the table, and his doorwing droops in embarrassment. “It was… a matter I educated myself on deeply, while researching my pursuit of Feldspar. There are patterns, if one looks.”

“And Punch and Flipsides don’t fall into those patterns.” Skids nods. “So they’re probably still running around, somewhere. Any luck tracking them down at other clinics, Ratchet?”

“I called around.” Ratchet shakes his helm, though. “No sign of mechs matching their descriptions - not as Punch and Flipsides or their covers. I kept it vague, but they’re a distinctive pair - they’re not at any of the clinics I’m aware of, free or paid, unless they’ve split up.”

“They wouldn’t have.” Bumblebee nods. “Not unless they knew for sure that they had been identified as Ops - even being chased by the gang, they’re safer together. And once they knew they were out of contact with their handler - well, they would have wanted to stay identifiable.”

“Then they’re not here. I may not have any Praxian _amica_ , but the medics in this city _know_ me - they wouldn’t try to hide patients from me. And there was no sign of them at my clinic - not on the cameras, and the Yoopers said no one had been through looking for me, either.” Ratchet pauses. 

“So we keep looking.” Bumblebee vents heavily. “How _about_ the Yoopers? Are they going to work with us, or…?”

Ratchet nods. “The Yoopers aren’t going to make any trouble for Ambulon - though we might have some trouble on that front.”

“Oh?” Bumblebee leans back, concerned.

“Yeah. Couple new punks tagging near the clinic - might just be new ‘sign I don’t recognize, might be someone planning to stake a claim.” Ratchet shrugs. “Either way, it shouldn’t be a big deal - no one’s going to frag with a medic.”

“Show me?” Jazz offers, holding out a datapad, and Ratchet - still dripping, slightly - scrawls something on it. The assassin considers it for a klik, then shrugs. “Not something I’ve ever come across - where was it?”

“Alley across from the front entrance.” Ratchet gestures off to his left. “Same one I knocked you out in,” he adds to Skids, “That bit of wall, right around the corner.”

Skids leans in, curious, and glances at the datapad offhandedly. Then, in a rush, all his plating flairs, and he barks a laugh. “Oh!” He shoves the datapad towards Bumblebee with a grin, then glances upward - “Hey, Red, did you have eyes on that alleyway, by any chance?” 

::I did not. Why - describe the symbol -::

“A karabast, reversed and flipped, in a thirteen-rayed sparkburst.”

Ratchet glares at him, voice indignant - “It looks nothing like that!”

::That isn’t what Ratchet described -:: But Red Alert sounds eager.

“I mean, Flipsides has terrible handwriting, but -”

“That’s not a slagging karabast, I don’t give a _frag_ what you say - there weren’t even thirteen rays - _that’s eleven!_ ”

“I don’t know - he got smacked around real good, maybe he fragged it up!” Skids raises his hands in surrender. “Point is - that’s our mechs! They must have left the Gabbros and made a run for your clinic - marked it up so we could find them, and -”

“And apparently you mechs have changed your ‘sign since Legend was in charge, since I’d have recognized it for sure if you were still using the old interlooped circles.” Ratchet vents in annoyance. “Do you have a datapack? Or someone who’s better than Flipsides at drawing slag?”

::Yes - here -:: Red Alert pings them all a file a moment later. Jazz unpacks it, curious - it’s a list of ‘cant signs like any other he’s used, though completely unfamiliar. He skims it - then opens a keywords search, and looks up ‘karabast’, which pulls up a design only vaguely resembling the design Ratchet has transcribed.

“Underground/At the Core?” He asks. 

“Yeah - ‘move to the center’ might be a better translation, it’s a pretty versatile sign. Absent an arrow, the plane the ‘sign is on determines orientation - on a floor, it means move along the surface to a place, on a wall it implies verticality.” Bumblebee glances at Ratchet. “Were there -”

“Any marks? No.” Ratchet shakes his helm.

“There is a drainage access there, though.” Jazz says, consideringly. “I’ve used it before, getting to the clinic unnoticed - if they knew where they were going, they could have dropped down a pipe anywhere in Gabbro turf and followed it all the way ta Yooper territory. It ain’t even a particularly hard run - a couple of turns ta remember, but there ain’t anywhere that’s likely to be flooded…”

::I’ll check - if they went underground near the Gabbro’s base, I might be able to get a video feed of them -:: Red Alert blinks out of comms a moment later.

“So they leave the Gabbros - at a bit of a run, since they’re probably worried about getting chased - and they duck into the sewers and head for the clinic.” Hot Rod shrugs. “Why not just comm, though? Hound was in the city - he could have been there in a klik -”

Ratchet raises a hand thoughtfully. “One klik.” There’s a few moments of silence before he glances up. “They _could_ have taken serious comms damage in the fight. Punch almost definitely, with his helm getting slapped around like that, but Flipsides…”

He considers that for another moment, then shrugs. “He’s lightly framed, even for a mini. Comms damage usually means an acute helm injury, but it’s possible they just slammed him into a wall hard enough to knock something loose.”

Bumblebee makes an angry hiss, at that, and Ratchet places a soothing hand on his shoulder. The yellow minibot glances up at him - Ratchet obviously comming him on a private line - and then glances away, plating easing back.

“I’ll get in touch with my supplier in the city - I have their specs, I’ll just order the parts for a comms replacement.” Ratchet’s fingers flick across his datapad. “It’ll be a bit fiddly, but it’ll be faster to do a complete swap if the damage is severe, and if it’s not, I can always just pull what I need. No one’ll blink at me ordering a couple of specialty parts.”

“Have it on hand, yeah.” Bumblebee nods. “Obviously, creds aren’t an issue, but don’t raise any optic ridges - once we know exactly what’s happened, I can have Mirage send us Ops-grade parts. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of cycles - Flipsides I know has a couple of specialty-cut components, but I think Punch is all -”

“Standard-fit, yeah.” Ratchet nods. “I’m not going to be able to order all of this without any attention, but I should be able to get anything I need for him on the secondary market if I can’t find it new. Military hardware tends to circulate - say what you want, but it’s built to _last._ ” He considers for a few kliks. “If we have to, we can let it get out that I’m doing the repairs on Carbine - no one will question that, even if you decide not to re-insert him, and he’s known ex-mil, so the parts won’t need explaining.”

“Sounds good, then - order the comms, and anything else you think you’ll need urgently based on the video.” Bumblebee nods. 

“Got it.”

“Red Alert?”

::I’m here.::

“Do you think you can get me -”

::A map of the pipeways?:: There’s a purr of contented amusement to the words. ::Already done. Can you set up the holoprojector to - yes, just over the table -::

“Thanks, Red. Missed you.” Bumblebee laughs as he unsubspaces a small cube, tossing it upward - there’s a metallic clang as it hits the ceiling and magnetizes, locking in place. Another moment, and it spills light over the table - Bumblebee begins to do something, obviously calibrating the projector, and Jazz crosses his arms over his chest indignantly.

“Hey - _I_ never got a cool holoprojector!”

::You never needed one - you had what, three mechs, tops, to explain things to?:: There’s a teasing lilt to Red Alert’s voice, though, and Jazz grins up at a corner of the safehouse where he’s pretty sure there’s a camera. ::Besides, you couldn’t afford it.::

“ _I couldn’t afford -_ ”Jazz squawks. “I’m pretty sure we stole, like, _millions of shanix_ -”

“You _what_ -” asks Hot Rod. Jazz ignores him.

::I had _expenses_ , Jazz. Besides - where would you have stored a holoprojector? In your _house?_ ::

“I had a warehouse!”

::Ah, yes - you needed a twenty-thousand shanix holoprojector for your _torture warehouse._ You could have just used Ratchet’s -::

Jazz’s helm twists sideways. “You had a cool holoprojector this entire time and you never told me?”

“I had a regular slagging holoprojector -” Ratchet’s optics narrow. “Why didn’t you just _buy_ a holoprojector, Jazz? You can get one for like a thousand shanix -”

“I want one that sticks to the roof!”

“Can we go back to the bit where you _stole millions of shanix -_ ”

“Can we not?” Bumblebee glances up from the - now fully calibrated - projector with a _look._ “Storytime later. Let’s focus.”

Jazz straightens in his seat, a little - just enough that he can reach out to manipulate the map. Next to him, Hot Rod does the same. “‘Course, boss.”

“Alright.” Bumblebee knits his fingers together, staring at the projected map thoughtfully. “So we need to visit the clinic, and see where we can pick up the trail. Jazz - you know the pipeways best of any of us. Do you think the two of us - you and me - could move around down there safely?

“ _Jus’_ the two of us? Yeah.” Jazz touches the map carefully, tracing a line on it that highlights, briefly, in yellow before fading back. “Ain’t anyone who’s gonna fit down there that I can’t handle.”

“Prowl - Hound.”

The two mechs look up, Prowl letting out a soft, curious hum.

“I want the two of you on the surface. Hound - you’re the best tracker we’ve got, but - no offense - I’m not dragging you through a bunch of drainage pipes unless I’ve got to.” 

Hound gives an appreciative grin. “Thanks, Bee. None taken.” Jazz gives a hum of agreement, considering the larger mech - Hound isn’t impossibly big, but he won’t have the maneuverability of a minibot in the pipeways.

“And Prowl… I don’t want to risk us losing touch again - you’ll be following Jazz from the surface, and trying to keep yourself and Hound as accessible as possible, if the trail goes cold.” Bumblebee grins. “Try to keep the flirting to a minimum.”

“I think we can manage that.” Prowl nods, and Jazz grins.

>>At least on-channel, right, Prowler?<<

>>At least on-channel.<< Prowl purrs his agreement back.

“I’m going to have to have Beachcomber live in your vents when we get back to Iacon, aren’t I?” Bumblebee groans, but Jazz gives him an easy shrug. 

“Nah, mech - we ain’t gonna do that ta him. We can make him up a little cot in th’ corner, or somethin’, ain’t no trouble.” That gets him a grin in reply.

“I might take you up on that.” Bumblebee settles back in his seat.

“So - what am I going to be doing?” Hot Rod doesn’t quite manage to keep the edge off his eagerness, but it’s Ratchet, not Bumblebee, who answers.

“You’re gonna be working with me today, kid.” That makes Hot Rod perk up in interest, and Ratchet laughs. “Yeah - I need a big strong mech to help me move equipment - I want to rearrange the surgery before Ambulon gets here. Then it’ll be a _whole afternoon_ of sorting parts - I’ve got a couple of boxes of gears an’ things that I’ve tossed together over the years…”

Hot Rod deflates a bit, but still manages a cheeky thumbs up. “Yaaay.”

“Don’t worry, Hot Rod.” Bumblebee laughs at the miserable, sagging plating and dour expression on the Prime’sguard’s face. “You might get some action, yet - you’re going to escort Ratchet to us if we do manage to find Punch and Flipsides and they’re not in a condition to move.”

“Oh!” And indeed, that does seem to cheer him up a bit. “Yeah - that’ll be fun!”

“Hopefully not,” grumbles Ratchet, but he shrugs himself to his pedes looking satisfied. “I’m going to take another look at those baffles, too - the asbestos mufflers should have held up fine, but it _really needs to be front-page medical information_ that you _occasionally light yourself on fire -_ ”

The sagging plating is right back. “Yaaay, baffles.” But Hot Rod follows Ratchet obediently as the medic heads out of the door, pausing at the entrance. 

“Jazz - you’re obviously not _stupid_ enough to use your sonics underground,” and he pauses, meeting Jazz’s optics for a long, meaningful moment. Jazz smirks, but nods - the thought of being trapped in a loudly-echoing - or _collapsing_ \- tunnel is unappealing, especially with only half of his baffles reinstalled. “But please, try to remember that Bee doesn’t have _any_ baffles. I’ll try to sort that out ASAP,” he adds with a glance in Bumblebee’s direction, “but I’m going to have to have Jackie work something up special for you - the standard baffles are too wide to fit under your plating.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice, Ratch. That close in, anyone who comes fer us is gettin’ a knife, anyways.” 

“You’re _’gettin’ a knife’,_ if I have to replace one more blown sensor array this orn.” But Ratchet waves a hand dismissively. “Take care of yourselves.”

“Will do!”

The door clicks shut behind the pair, and Jazz rises, offering Prowl a hand to his pedes as he does. “Shall we, then?”

“Give it a klik - I want Ratchet and Hot Rod well away before we leave.” Bumblebee reaches out his hand, and the projector drops into it. “Were you, ah -”

“Serious about wantin' one of those?” Bumblebee nods, and Jazz laughs. “Nah, mech - just fraggin’ with Red.”

“Oh.” Bumblebee grins, and subspaces the device. “Fair enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Halfway there. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA living on a prayer.
> 
> So, bam! Another planning session. This is why we put our heads together, kids - we want _everybody_ picking up on clues. 
> 
> Not that it's really Ratchet's (or Red's) fault they didn't catch this one. Op's 'Cant Sign (the general term for their version of hobo sign - think the Railroad's symbols in Fallout 4) has changed over time. Last time Ratchet worked with Ops, it was used by drawing thirteen interlocking circles with a symbol in the center (one for each of the thirteen Primes) - now it's been simplified a bit, since that's a PITA to draw, but... Well. Flipsides can't draw, apparently (esp. with a brain injury...)
> 
> Sewer Quest! Sewer Quest! Or rather, Pipeways. They don't transport sewage - rather, they have conduits for solvents (which are piped in, and then run through recyclers in buildings high-end enough to have washracks - so you'd pipe in a few hundred gallons of solvent, turn off the pipe, recycle it through filters until a minimum amount was reached, and then top off. They also have acid-rain gutters, so flooding can be an issue in parts of the city where the pipeway goes deep, but it keeps the streets from dissolving from standing acid, and sub-surface power conduits (which aren't actually in the pipeways, but the access hatches are.) The pipeway lets maintenance crews access all of these vital sub-surface utilities without having to tear the streets up, but when they're not in use, they tend to be taken as shelter by a lot of the poorest mechs in the city. Smugglers use them too, but not that often, in Praxus - since in Praxus you're generally quite safe just using the streets.
> 
> Energon, on the other hand, is usually only piped within buildings - most apartments ritzy enough to have piped fuel have a basement area with energon storage tanks, and a dedicated pump assembly. The energon is trucked in and delivered (kind of like to a heating oil tank, there's a valve on the outside that it gets piped into) and then distributed to the dispensors. That's how fuel works at the palace, too, for mechs who are allowed to drink dispenser energon. A really ritzy place might have two or three fuels, even!
> 
> So - my updates will probably get a little patchy over the next few days/weeks - my grandmother passed away last evening. It was very good - she died peacefully with my father with her, and my sister and I got to see her only moments after, but there are a lot of things to take care of. That said, I really enjoy writing this, so I may just keep trucking at this rate - it really has been a huge help to me to have something to do with all of this drama going on around me! :D Thank you to everyone who was keeping us in their thoughts!
> 
> Next chapter: SEWER LEVEL! We're going to trade off between Jazz and Prowl as POV characters for this - since they'll be working two very different angles on the same search. That'll probably be at least two chapters, and then we'll hop back to Ratchet and Hot Rod and see what the hell those two are getting up to! :D


	8. Chapter 8

“So - lead the way.”

“Got it, bossmech.” Jazz pauses, just for a moment, to blow an amused-looking Prowl a kiss before folding down into alt and guiding the small convoy out onto the highway. Ratchet’s clinic isn’t particularly close, but it’s not unreasonably far, either - about two breems on the high-speed roadway when traffic is clear.

This early in the morning, the traffic isn’t clear. It’s more than four breems later when he pulls off the highway an exit early, dropping back onto the local roads to avoid a snarl of traffic. In this area - one that he’s intimately familiar with, after centivorns of wandering the dark streets - it’s easy to navigate without his maps, though he pulls one up to make it easier to ping them directions.

::I think we’ll be better off entering the pipeway over - one second -:: He pings the other four mechs a map marker. ::Here. It’ll put us just about a thousand meters off our target, but with an entire building between us - not that far, underground, but far enough on the surface that anymech watching Ratch’s place won’t notice us moving around.::

::Sounds like a plan.:: Bumblebee agrees. ::Hound, Prowl -::

::We’ll wait a couple blocks out,:: Hound replies. ::No point in moving in until you’ve got a heading, at least.::

Prowl pings an easy, wordless agreement. 

::That works.:: Bumblebee sticks close behind Jazz as he turns off the main road - Prowl and Hound keep moving, and Jazz can see them pull over and transform in his rearviews as he guides the minibot towards the nearest entrance to the pipeway proper, a few blocks away. Once they roll up, it doesn’t take much to get the grate open - the lock itself long ago snapped off - and Jazz drops into the tunnel below a moment before Bumblebee follows, pedes clanging against the metal floor of the pipe.

The pipe itself isn’t badly sized, for a mech - tall and wide enough for them to walk besides each other with the water-conduits overhelm between them. There’s a faint line of light along the wall of the pipe on either side of it - just enough to cast a blue pall over both them and the pipe - and Jazz flickers through his filters until he gets to one designed to wash the worst of it out.

Bumblebee resets his optics beside him a few times before scanning the walls, quickly, and trotting off down the tunnel.

Jazz tries to comm Bumblebee - but already there’s a thick static to the comms from the metal all around them. “So - we’re lookin’ fer - what?” He asks aloud, instead, trudging after him. “More sign, or…?”

“Probably.” Bumblebee nods. “If we’re lucky, there’ll be a trail to follow that will take us straight to them. If not… well, that’s where Hound comes in. A trail that’s just a couple cycles old? He’ll be able to pick it up, no problem.”

“Huh. Is that a sigma, too?” 

“For him?” Bumblebee chuckles. “No. He managed Tower Twisted Glass’ gardens, and the hunts - and I doubt there’s a mech alive that leaves less trace than a turbofox.” He cocks his helm. “Well. Maybe Howlback.”

“Fair enough.” Jazz has never _seen_ a turbofox - or Howlback for that matter - but he shrugs, anyways. “Shame he’s so big.”

Bumblebee grins at that. “That’s what _I_ always say!”

“Still - I’m kind of surprised that you took me instead of Skids, not gonna lie.” The theoretician is taller than him, but not enough to have trouble manuvering - or fighting - in the pipes. “‘S isolated down here. Lots of places where a mech dropping off comms ain’t gonna be noticed ‘til it’s too late.”

The look Bumblebee gives him is unimpressed, and faintly amused. “If I thought you were going to kill me, you wouldn’t be down here, Jazz. You wouldn’t be Ops.”

“Fair enough.” Jazz eases his way around a pile of long-discarded crates as Bumblebee scrambles over them. “An’ I ain’t gonna. But… I dunno - I didn’ really expect you ta take me at my word, fer that. At least not enough ta want me wit’ you, down here.”

“Eh.” Bumblebee shrugs as he makes his way around another corner. “Sometimes you’ve got to take risks. Besides -” he glances back - “I’m the most senior member of Iaconi Ops, these days. I’d hope I was a better judge of character than getting stabbed in a tunnel by my own mech.”

“Most senior?” Jazz asks, curious. “I know you’re, um, what’s it called -”

“Skip.” Bumblebee offers.

“Sure, that - Mirage said you were in charge of your warren -” That gets him a laugh. 

“Well - it’s not quite like that. I mean, it kind of it, but - I don’t know, it’s hard to explain to - no offense - a bulk.” Bumblebee gestures with a grin. “You.”

“You were callin’ Skids that, earlier.” 

“Teasing, I promise. There aren’t a lot of… complimentary terms… in Standard, sorry. In _Mitchva’lasar_ you’d be a _vrra’las_ which is much more complementary I promise.” Bumblebee laughs at the look on his face, and Jazz grins. “A fast-one - we usually differentiate by frametype, rather than city.”

“And _Mitshva’lasar_? Minibot?” But Bumblebee shakes his helm with a flicker of amusement. 

“No - _mitchva’las_ \- the ending ‘ar is for the language. A star-walking-one.” There’s a touch of whistfulness at the words. “We were forged for spacefaring, first - Cybertron had been free for millennia before the first minibot ever set foot on him. According to legend, at least.”

“Huh.” It’s intriguing, and Jazz makes a note to ask the minibot - or Ratchet - more later, but he teases the conversation back to his point. “Most senior, though?”

“Yeah. I started as a scout - working for Ironhide - during the war, but then Ironhide came back to Cybertron, and I wanted to transfer with him. There’s not much call for minibots in the Prime’sguard, though - but Ops had a few, a very small warren, and so Legend offered me a spot with him.” Bumblebee grins. “It suited me. After that… well. Eventually I was the most senior minibot. Things happened. And then Red blew up everyone who wasn’t Hound, Mirage, or the warren, and I was suddenly the most senior member of Ops.”

“Is it hard workin’ with him?” Jazz asks, curious - it’s an impolitely forward question, but there’s soft static coming from his comms, and that’s the closest thing to privacy to ask it.

“What?” Bumblebee doesn’t look offended, though - just confused. “What do you - oh, you mean Red? No, I love him - why?”

Jazz resets his optics in earnest at that. “Because he killed all your friends?”

“Friends is a strong word.” Bumblebee snorts. “I mean - sure, I liked plenty of them. Lots of them were good mechs, right up until they decided to commit treason. Traitors.” There’s a deep venom to that word, vicious right beneath the surface. “If he hadn’t blown them up -”

There’s a pause, where he cuts off, and then spins to face Jazz in the tunnel, ducking easily under a conduit. He optics are bright in the dark - two points of light, laser-focused.

“Here’s the thing you have to understand, Jazz. I’m not a violent mech - but if _I’d_ have found out what those fraggers were planning? I’d have slit. every. last. one. of. their. throats. Myself!” The minibot spins again, slipping back into his place beside Jazz, keeping up his stride as easily as if he hadn’t moved. “Optimus is a good Prime - a good mech - and I’ll be slagged if I let a bunch of Functionalist _slaves_ take that away.”

“Ah…” Jazz can’t help but be surprised at the vehemence in the other mechs voice. “Am I gettin’ tha’ this is supposed ta be a threat right?”

“Oh, _Primus_ , yes.” But Bumblebee grins, at that. “I would _gut you._ ”

“Fair enough.” Jazz chuckles. “Nah, mech, I like him too much ta plot, promise. He does seem like a nice mech.”

“You’re young.” Bumblebee says it matter-of-factly. “I remember back before the war - back when minibots were just barely above disposables. I might not have had the worst of it - the invasion was just before I reached my final frame, so I joined a military warren as soon as I upgraded and never looked back - but…”

They reach the end of the hallway together, and Bumblebee scans the surfaces carefully. “This way, I think.” He gestures at a scrawled symbol. “There aren’t any rays, but -”

“Yeah, I got it.” Jazz checks the symbol against the database. “Circlin’ back - so they came this way, left sign, an’ then had ta cross back through th’ other way.” He checks his map. “Yeah - there’s a camp, ‘bout four thousan’ meters that way - I bet they heard mechs talkin’ and turned around.”

“Any chance that they’ll make trouble for us?”

“Nah. Most’a th’ camps ain’t gonna make trouble for anymech - they’re just… livin’ down here. It’s dry, mostly, an’ th’ cops aren’t gonna hassle you fer layin’ down - if you’ve got some friends, you can keep th’ opportunists away pretty good. ‘S long as we’re just movin’ through, they won’t start nothing.” Jazz takes a moment to scan the wall, gesturing at three rust-brown lines running vertically before starting down the pipe in the opposite direction. “They’re the Three-Strip camp, then. ‘Least that’s what I’d call ‘em - you get kind of flexible with the naming down here.”

“Do you know most of the gangs in this area of town?” Bumblebee sounds… impressed, almost, and Jazz grins.

“Th’ mechs down here ain’t gangs, Bee. At least, not like you’re thinkin’ - they might scrap fer turf, occasionally, but no mech that has options is gonna be down here. I don’ know what it’s like in Iacon, but th’ surface is fer gangs, in Praxus - down here, you’re just dealin’ with poor mechs.” Jazz gestures down the hall. “With that said - we’re comin’ up on th’ edge of Yooper territory, if your mechs keep going straight past this junction. Depending on where they go from there, there’ll be about two blocks of uncontrolled territory before we run up on either th’ Maxixes, or Sard turf.”

“Are _they_ going to mind?”

“Nah. But they might have guards keepin’ an optic on th’ border. Might not, too - ‘s been a long time since any of th’ gangs in this area really tangled, which is why Ratch is so keen ta keep the Yoopers around.” Bumblebee nods his understanding, and Jazz grins. “That said - th’ gangs around here know me. Not, you know, _me_ , but know I work fer Ratch - an’ if they’ve been keepin’ an optic on things, they’ll know if our mechs came through.”

“Fair enough. Are they just going to _tell_ us, or…?”

“That depends - what’re th’ Ops policies on bribin’ mechs?” Jazz laughs, but Bumblebee doesn’t look surprised by the question at all.

“Keep it reasonable.” He shrugs. “Fuel, medical care, and quality-of-life items are fine, try not to offer shanix indiscriminately, no one’s going to blink at anything under, oh, five thousand. We try to avoid illegal drugs and anything traceable - so artwork, distinctive gemstones, offworld imports.”

At Jazz’s look, he laughs. “There _is_ an actual ‘Ops policy on bribing mechs’. I’ll send it to you as soon as we’ve got a decent comms linkup.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s almost a breem before they actually run into anyone - a surly grey-and-white mech that Jazz vividly remembers shooting in the shoulder on a particularly rough mission.

He also, fortunately, recognizes the mech as a Maxixe - and the mech obviously recognizes him, and not as Meister. His hand - which had dropped to his weapon when they rounded the corner - falls as he relaxes. “Slag - sorry, Jazz. Wasn’ expectin’ anyone down here.”

“Hey, Xyston.” He gives the mech an easy grin. “How’s it goin’?”

“Eh, I’m down here.” The mech snorts. “Ain’ great. Beats th’ slag out of gettin’ shot.”

“Fair enough, I guess. Me an’ my mech good ta slip through here?”

“Sure.” But Xyston gives Bumblebee a curious look. “Who’s th’ mech?”

“Friend of a friend’s.” Jazz grins, hoping the minibot is smart enough to stay quiet and let him handle things. “He’s lookin’ fer a mech - wanted someone ta watch his back down here, make introductions, an’ th’ like.”

Bumblebee steps forward at that - and, to his credit, he has on the most astonishingly innocent face Jazz has ever seen on a mech. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen them, sir?” It’s all Jazz can do to keep from snorting - Xyston is the sort of mech who has never been called _sir_ before in his life - but it obviously has the desired effect, since the gangster flares his plating a little, obviously flattered. “A pair of mechs - a big tough one like you, and a little one like me?”

Jazz would say he was laying it on thick, if it didn’t appear to be working.

“Aw… I’m sure ye’ll find ‘em, mech.” Bumblebee gives him a soft smile at that, leaning in hopefully. “But yer payin’ my friend there ta help, right? I don’ suppose ye’ve got a bit or two fer me, fer th’ favor of ‘memberin’?”

“Oh - sure!” Bumblebee straightens in excitement, obviously ‘relieved’ to have found more help. “Um… I don’t have a lot, sorry - would fifty shanix do?”

It’s way less than _Jazz_ would have to pay for a bribe, if Xyston was looking for one - almost insultingly little - but the grey-and-white mech, bizarrely, nods. “Sure, little guy.”

Bumblebee coyly hands him the chip, and Xyston smiles at him fondly. “They came through about - oh - a cycle ago. Just over, actually. Headed deeper in - I didn’ say nothin ta them, since th’ big one looked like he was fixin’ ta slag anyone that crossed ‘im.” He shrugs. “Dunno where they went - pro’lly ta find a clinic, since yer’s was closed. That medic of yer’s is gonna be back, right?”

“Already is,” Jazz agrees with a grin. “An’ thanks, mech. Stop by anytime.”

They pad off down the corridor in silence - Jazz waits until he’s sure they’re well enough away that the tunnels will deaden his voice before hissing a question to Bumblebee. “What the _slag_ was that?”

“What was what, Jazz?” Bumblebee gives him an innocent look.

“Agh - slag - that! Stop it!”

“What, you don’t want to help the cute little minibot find his friends?” Bumblebee’s voice is smooth as silver as he brightens his optics hopefully. “You don’t want to be nice to me?”

“I hate it!” Jazz protests. “Agh - stop!”

“I can’t _believe_ there’s a mech _cold enough_ to hate a cute little minibot like me.” But Bumblebee grins, and drops the sweet voice. “Gets them every time.”

“Augh - go back to threatenin’ ta slit my throat, please. _That_ ain’t right.”

“It works, though.” Bumblebee gives a considering look. “Or at least, he seemed honest - how likely do you think it is he was feeding us slag?”

“Not very.” Jazz snorts. “He owes me better than that. An’ it ain’t like it’d’ve cost him anythin’ ta spit in your face once you handed him th’ creds.” Jazz contemplates that, for a moment. “‘Sides - we didn’ say anythin’ about when our friends would’a been by - risky ta guess that long ago, unless he was sure.”

Bumblebee considers that, too. “Fair enough.”

“How far would your mechs’ve gone?” Jazz asks. “If they’ve got a cycle’s lead on us -”

“They’d have kept moving until they found someplace safe to den up.” Bumblebee shrugs. “Probably pretty far, if they kept running across mechs down here. Especially with both of them injured - but they’d have gone to ground the first time they felt it might be safe, rather than exhausting themselves.”

“Probably pretty far, then,” Jazz offers. “We’re headin’ away from th’ waterfront, but it’ll be another joor of fast walkin’ before we’re clear of th’ small gang’s turf. My bet is they’ll be somewhere under th’ metro - the big gangs don’ give as much of a slag about what goes on down here, an’ there’s a lot of small side bits under th’ buildings.”

“They’ll have marked it for us,” Bumblebee asserts confidently. “Once we’re there - we’ll find them.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As they turn down another corridor, Bumblebee tracing his fingers across a - much more crude - symbol, Jazz ping his map for a locational update and comes up short. Bumblebee stops, too, fortunately, and gives him an inquiring look, but Jazz hesitates, gazing down the darkened tunnel to where the lights flicker and go dark. “We shouldn’t go that way.”

“What?” But Bumblebee stays with him rather than forging ahead. “Why not?”

Jazz hesitates for a long moment - not sure if the more senior mech will believe him - but then he vents, heavily. “There’s a crack in the pipes. About… what, three hundred meters off that way? To the crust. We can detour around it - it’s not far.”

“Oh.” Bumblebee, to his relief, gives the tunnel a wary look. “Anything ever -”

“Come through? Yeah. A couple centivorns ago - some kind of demon. It’s walled off - one second -” He pings the minibot a map marker. “Here - a couple of th’ gang guys baited it inta a tunnel and welded it in.”

“Baited?” Bumblebee sounds curious, at that. “How did they -”

Jazz guides him on, around a corner that will detour them far enough around the crack that they _should_ be able to avoid the notice of any of the lurking creatures of the subterranean dark. “How do you think?” He snorts. “Picked a guy who owed th’ gang more money than he could ever pay back, handed him a gun, an’ told him they’d shoot his _amica_ and him if he fragged it up. Then they just need ta get him running, an’ as long as he’s lucky, he’ll get th’ damned thing where it’s needed an’ still have time ta off himself ‘fore it can catch up an’ eat his spark.”

“That’s…” 

“Horrifyin’, yeah. But th’ temple doesn’t have th’ time ta rush down here every time somethin’ comes crawlin’ up from the dark - they’ll clear th’ place out every so often, when it gets too dangerous fer th’ maintenance mechs ta work, but as fer th’ rest of us…” He shrugs. “We ain’ supposed ta be down here, anyways. So unless th’ gangs do somethin’, mechs’ll just keep gettin’ picked off.”

“Did he succeed?”

“What?”

Bumblebee gives him an odd look. “The mech they used. Did he manage to offline himself before it got him?”

“Oh. I dunno. I use th’ pipeways every so often, but I wasn’ around fer that specific bit of nastiness - I heard about it orn after it happened, ‘cause I’d been avoidin’ the pipes ever since I heard somethin’ was runnin’ around killin’ mechs.” Jazz flickers a dagger out of subspace, lets it twirl around his fingers and vanish. “I’ll take any mech in this city - slag, I’ll take all o’ th’ mechs in th’ city - ‘fore I fight a Sparkeater or somethin’ on its own turf.”

“There’s no chance that Carbine and Sightlines would have run into something like that, is there?” 

“Round here? Nah - th’ place is kept clear, fer the most part, an’ there’d be sign if somethin’d come up that was -” He scans the walls, looking for - “Yeah, here.” He traces a long-worn symbol in chipped, faded paint on the wall, a stylized, v-shaped jag with a crude hand coming up. “Somethin’ like this, but fresh. They’d have ta be th’ unluckiest slaggers in th’ world ta have been th’ first mechs ta run across a monster, an’ even then, we’d’ve seen th’ blaster scorches. I just don’ wanna be more traffic, an’ risk catchin’ somethin’s attention up to th’ pipes.”

“True.” Bumblebee looks just a touch more on edge, like he’s forcing himself to relax. He digs in his subspace for a moment. “Here.”

The charm he offers looks like an elegant mesh ribbon, letters hand-scribed with a tool that has pressed the metal threads flat, with a brass magnetic clasp at the top. Jazz sticks it to his plating automatically, but hesitates. “I dunno how much good a charm’s gonna do, mech.”

“It’s something.” Bumblebee replies with a shrug. “Besides - these were made by Optimus. Not that I’d call myself particularly religious, but…”

“If anyone’s gonna make a charm that works, it’d be the Prime.” Jazz nods, shifting the token a little forwards as he trudges into the darkness. “Fair enough.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shadow of a frame greets them as they round the next set of tunnels. They’re almost beneath the city center - and the ‘sign they’re following is growing further and further apart as they go, and less and less clear in a worrying way. Distracted by that, Jazz almost keeps going, willing to just slip by the other mech in the dark - until he catches the glint of a gun in the other mech’s hands.

He pushes Bumblebee behind him, but doesn’t draw his own weapon - the mech hasn’t done anything particularly hostile yet.

“Hey - you. Topsiders.” The mech slinks out of the shadows, voice hoarse. “There’s a toll.”

“A toll.” Jazz crosses his arms, unimpressed. The mech - some kind of mid-sized racing alt - looks like he’s ready to collapse under a stiff breeze; his nanites are dead in wide, gray swaths, with only patches of color remaining, and there’s a rusty grind when he moves that reeks of the late stages of a rust infection. His optics are dim - almost dark - with fuel deprivation, and one of his arms is spattered with sticky, half-dried fuel, seeping from a crushed shoulder. “Sure, I’ll bite.”

The mech sways, optics flickering with surprise at Jazz’s agreement. He stares for almost half a klik, gaze vacant like a stim addict’s.

Jazz edges forwards, and the blaster swings up, manically. “There’s a toll!” The blaster is aimed more at the wall than him, but Jazz stops, anyways, hands rising in submission. Bumblebee shifts uneasily behind him.

||Hold steady.|| He gestures - there’s no way the disoriented mech can focus well enough to read Hand at this range, even if he’s fluent. ||That’s not an enemy.||

There’s another shift - a nod, if he’s lucky - and Bumblebee goes still.

“That’s fine, mech. That’s good. I’m gonna pay your toll.” Jazz says, slowly and clearly. “I don’t want to fight you. Do you want fuel?”

That gets him another quarter-klik of unsteady deliberation. “Yeah. Fuel.” The mech gestures for it, and almost drops his blaster.

Jazz, still moving carefully, reaches into subspace for a cube. He holds it out in front of himself like a shield, edging closer. “Here.” 

This time, the mech does drop his blaster - it clatters to the floor of the tunnel, forgotten, as he grabs the cube with both hands. He fumbles with it - almost dropping it - until Jazz edges up behind him and catches him by a wrist.

“Hey -” He protests, weakly, but Jazz braces one hand behind his shoulder and the other around his wrist, and half-forces, half-guides him to the ground.

“Ain’t gonna hurt you, mech. Just gonna make sure that all ends up in your tanks, ‘right? You’re gonna be fine.” He settles down beside the other mech and helps him clumsily open the cube, then guide it to his mouth, free hand flickering. ||Sorry, boss. Don’t want ta shoot him.||

||That’s fine.|| Bumblebee creeps forward, again, collecting the blaster before slinking up to examine the mech’s damaged shoulder - the mech is too distracted by the taste of fuel to react. He touches the energon, lightly, considering it for a moment - ||This is fresh.||

||How fresh?||

||No more than a cycle. Probably less.|| Bumblebee gives the other mech a thoughtful look. “Who did this to you?”

He’s ignored as the mech finishes the cube.

“Hey.” Jazz nudges him, gently, on the shoulder once the last of the energon is gone. “My friend wants ta know - who slagged your shoulder, mech?”

The mech resets his optics blearily at that. “Huh?” He glances over, seeming a little clearer. “Oh. That. Th’ - it was this big mech.”

“A big mech?” Bumblebee prompts. “How big?”

“Eh… not too big. He wasn’ little, tho. Not like th’ little mech.” The mech gives Bumblebee another bleary look. “‘S that my gun?”

“Nope.” The mech looks… a little confused, at that, but he seems convinced. “So the big mech and the little mech were together? And the big one attacked you?”

“He stole…” It’s obvious that even with the fuel, the mech is having a hard time stringing the words together. “He stole my house.”

“Your…” Bumblebee trails off, and signs to Jazz rather than disorienting the mech further. ||His _house?_ ||

||Probably a dead end he’s cornered off fer himself.|| Jazz offers. ||Someplace nice an’ quiet ta jack into his stims.||

||Or a nice place for an injured agent to hide…|| Bumblebee grins. “Can you show us where your house is? We’ll get rid of them, for you.”

“You wanna -” The mech’s optics narrow - or try to; one of the shutters is damaged and clicks uselessly in a lopsided sort of stare. “Oh. You’re lookin’ fer them.”

“We are,” Bumblebee agrees before Jazz can stop him. “So if you show us where they are -”

“Ain’t gonna.” The mech shakes his helm, obviously still foggy, but _not foggy enough._ “Gotta - gotta pay me.”

This time, Bumblebee gives him a surprised look, and Jazz grins. “Sure. How much?”

“What?” Slowly, the energon is hitting his system; that comes out a little cleared. “You rich, or somethin’?”

“Or somethin’,” Jazz agrees, before Bumblebee can make anything harder. “How’s this sound - two cubes, an’ I think I got some extra coolant somewhere, an’ you answer all of my dumb friend there’s questions.”

“Three hundred creds.” The mech says, obviously grasping the situation quickly. “Too.”

“Sure,” Jazz agrees, easily enough - it’s Bumblebee’s shanix. “Pit, I’ll toss in a good word at th’ Yooper clinic fer havin’ somemech take a look at that shoulder, if yer willin’ ta go topside fer it. Where’d they go?”

“I’ll -” The mech tries to rise to his pedes - it takes Jazz, and Bumblebee, supporting him to make it upright. “Slag -”

“Look - you don’ gotta come. Can you give us directions, or…” 

The mech gives him a cagey, frightened look at that. “I know where it is -” He staggers forwards, a little. “I’ll show you -”

“Sure - sure.” Jazz catches him again, carefully balancing against the taller mech’s starved frame. It’s obvious that even with his head clearing, he’s not in any kind of condition to think out directions - not without the tunnels in front of him as he goes. “Don’ worry, mech - we ain’t gonna short you. Take it slow - we ain’t in any kind of hurry.”

>>Prowler?<< He sends down the bond, optimistically. 

>>Yes, Jazz?<< He can feel Prowl considering the injured mech. >>Do you need help -<<

>>Not fer th’ moment.<< Jazz replies. >>Let Ratch know I’ve got a patient fer him, though? We’ll figure out sendin’ him once we’ve got our mechs, but it sounds like Punch stole his lurk. We’re gonna go see.<<

>>Sounds good.<< Prowl agrees. >>I’ll let Hound know, too.<<

>>Thanks, love.<< Jazz lets his attention shift back to the injured mech he’s carrying. “How far is it, would you say?”

“Not far.” The mech winces. “Thanks.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The fuel does the mech a world of good - by the time they’re near his ‘house’, he’s walking on his own, and clear-helmed enough to give them directions the rest of the way. At his insistence, Jazz passes him the cubes, and as soon as they’re tucked away in subspace, the mech is off - moving slowly but steadily back down the tunnels rather than risk getting caught in their - presumptive - fight.

“He’ll be fine,” he reassures Bumblebee, who is watching him go uneasily. “Everybody knows the clinic - now he’s got enough fuel in himself ta walk, he’ll make his way over there. Or go knock his own processor out on stims - but I promise, you ain’t gonna convince him otherwise, if that’s where he’s goin’.”

“Yeah.” The minibot vents heavily. “It’s just… slag. You know?”

“Slag,” Jazz agrees. “Ain’t gonna change th’ world in a cycle, though. He’s got enough fuel ta make his own choices. An’ we got mechs ta rescue.” He stops talking, and flicks his fingers out. ||We should probably move quiet.||

Bumblebee moves up alongside him, fingers moving gracefully. ||Yeah. I’m not sure what condition Punch and Flipsides are going to be in when we find them. I don’t like that he attacked that mech - it’s out of character.||

||For him, or the cover?|| Jazz checks.

||Him,|| Bumblebee clarifies. ||Two dead Gabbros say it’s not out of character for the cover.||

||Fair enough - but he’d’ve switched back, by now, surely?|| Jazz asks. ||Unless - one sec -||

>>Prowler? I need you to ask Ratch somethin’ fer me.<<

>> _Unable,_ << pings back. 

>>What?<< He sends back, unable to keep his sudden concern out of his tone. >>Prowler -<<

>>Sorry.<< It’s words, at least. >>Ratchet - something’s going on, we’re not sure what. Red Alert says that the situation is under control, but we can’t reach him over comms.<< There’s a pause, then: >>If it’s just a question, send it through. Hound can have Mirage ask Ambulon.<<

>>Sure.<< He pings back. >>How likely is it, if a mech got slagged in th’ helm bad enough, that he’d lose his hearin’, too?<<

>>One klik -<< Prowl cuts away to relay the message as Jazz rounds another corner - and skids to a stop, Bumblebee clanging almost into him as he does.

>>Never mind, Prowler -<< He sends back, as the steely-opticked black-and-grey frame at the end of the narrow tunnel turns just enough to notice him and spins, rifle coming up even as Jazz shoves Bumblebee back again. >>Think I just found out.<<

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy! Lots of good stuff this chapter - hoo boy!
> 
> So, I decided for ease of composition that I'd do all Jazz, this chapter - writing Jazz *and* Prowl's POVs just wasn't happening, so we'll be catching up with him and Hound in a little bit! Fortunately, re-cutting all of this into some kind of combined chapter is a challenge that I can leave to second-draft Aard - who will be delighted with me I'm sure. It'll probably be streamlined a bit too, but... eh, I'll wait until I have all the chapters together for that.
> 
> As of right now, it's going to be this chapter (Jazz) next chapter (Jazz) chapter after that (Prowl) chapter after that (??? MYSTERY POV ???) and then back to Prowl again to wrap up! We're getting there, guys!
> 
> As far as this goes... Bee. Beebeebee - I love him. What a good and quality character. Polite. Smol. Fun. Perfect. Unlike... a lot... of our crew, there's no tragic backstories here! He joined the army, rose through the ranks, joined Ops once a position opened up - a good and proper career. 
> 
> That said if you threaten his Prime he will SLICE and DICE because he's smart enough to know he's got a good thing. 
> 
> Bee, I think, is one of those guys where if he wanted the top spot, it'd be his, but he'd never want it. He's got his own stuff to do - taking care of his warren, cool spy shit - the sort of other commitments that mean that even though he's stuck listening to Mirage, he's not unhappy about it because the alternative, paperwork, is much worse. That said, it's a dynamic that works for them - Mirage, bless him, is very much a lordling, even if he's pretty chill, so the thought that seniority might make a mech _unwilling_ to listen to him is... probably not one that occurred to him. Not out of any particular vanity, just garden-variety Towers training - even if Mirage was bottom-of-the-heap in his tower, he was still raised to be a commanding 'leader' of the underclasses.
> 
> And we get to see a little more of how the gangs interact with Praxus. There are a lot of layers to the city, honestly - from poor single mechs doing their best to stay out of the way, to coalitions of poor mechs living together illicitly for protection, to the small gangs, trade groups, and worker's organizations that exist as much for their member's protection as to commit crimes, to the big gangs that are almost Yakuza-style crime syndicates - and then, of course, the terrible, terrible cops. You get all sorts! I love sewers as a setting, honestly - they're great for showing the _consequence_ of a shitty urban setting, because no one who lives down there wants to. 
> 
> So, we've found Carbine... and Zeth was 100% right with their guess, last chapter - so, gratz! And thank you to everyone who commented, and especially for the well-wishes - I really appreciate it. Feel free to let me know what you think of the various meaty chunks of this chapter before I feed it into the sausage-mill of history - I know a couple of themes got repeated so I could pick the best fits when I get to editing, so let me know if you have any sort of strong opinions!


	9. Chapter 9

“Slag!” Jazz’s hands are in the air as fast as he can get them there. Prowl’s voice echoes down the bond, but he shunts it aside almost forcefully as the grey mech glares at him. The glare is almost predatory, and lethally keen; whatever audial glitches he’s having, it’s obvious they don’t extend to his optics. Unlike the last mech with a gun on him, this one is surgeon-steady, aimed at his spark - and there’s no doubt in his processor at all that the mech will fire, if tested.

>>Jazz? Jazz -<<

>>Not now, Prowl !<< Prowl’s voice, mercifully, goes silent, fading to a simmer of nervous worry. 

“Carbine -” Bumblebee calls out, and there’s not even a flicker of acknowledgement - the mech is properly deaf. “Slag - don’t move, Jazz. Flipsides doesn’t have the codes to hardline him out of this, and without his audials -”

“ _Why_ doesn’t Flipsides have the codes -” Jazz hisses back.

“ _Because_ no one’s supposed to hardline Punch at all! The coding’s delicate -” Bumblebee breaks off as Carbine steps forwards with a growl.

“Who th’ slag are you?” The thick Tarnish accent surprises Jazz, a bit - it’s well-suited to the mech’s gray frame, and his heavy plating, but… 

“I’m Jazz. This’s Bee.” Jazz offers, enunciating clearly. “Slag - he speak Hand?”

“We all do -” offers Bumblebee. ||Bumblebee. This is Jazz. We’re friendly - please don’t shoot us.||

“I don’ have a lot of friends down here.” There’s a snarl to the words. “Who sent you?”

||Hound.|| Bumblebee hesitates. ||We don’t mean any harm - I promise -||

“Pit slag. Who sent you!?” The mech rumbles, from deep within his chest - but there’s a faint rasping click to it that doesn’t sound entirely healthy, like a belt just slightly misaligned.

||Hound - I swear -|| Bumblebee’s optics are wide with worry, locked on the gun’s barrel - and he shouts. “FLIPSIDES! Flipsides, are you there -”

“Shut the slag up!” Carbine gives Bumblebee a furious, alarmed look - Jazz privately agrees with him, _he_ has no desire to attract the attention of every other mech in the tunnels with them, either - but the yelling seems to have the desired effect when -

“Bumblebee?” There’s a soft voice from behind the glaring mech, then - “Bumblebee!”

Carbine makes a grab - the gun swinging away from Jazz’s chest just a moment - but he’s too slow to grab the minibot darting out from behind him, who limps, grinning, towards them. “Bee - Primus, slag, it’s so good to see you -”

“Please don’t get us shot by your partner, Flips!” Bumblebee yelps as the grey mech corrects his aim.

“What?” Flipsides - Jazz assumes - spins around, swaying as he does. “Carbine! No, no -” 

He signs something, fingers blocked from Jazz’s view by his frame, and Carbine growls. “One second -”

There’s a flurry of Hand signs, and, after a long, long moment, Carbine lowers the gun. Not entirely - but Jazz lets himself vent again as it drops away from his spark.

“You’re really Hound’s friends?” The grey mech asks with a glare at Bumblebee - then at Jazz. “D’you speak Hand?”

||Yeah.|| Jazz signs back, giving him a hesitant grin. ||Sorry for spookin’ you, mech.||

“Sorry for almost shooting you.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Why’d he send you?”

||You dropped off the map. Gabbros told us you’d got in a fight - Hound was worried you’d gotten yourselves slagged.|| Bumblebee takes over, his movements fluid. ||We were in the area, so we agreed to help him look - he’s topside, if you want to come talk to him||

“That’s uncommonly good of you.” Carbine sounds doubtful, though. 

||Hey - us exmil have to stay together, right?|| Bumblebee grins at him. ||Me and him were scouts together on the Vergaii excursion.||

It doesn’t mean anything to Jazz, but Carbine obviously recognizes the name. The gun drops more fully to his side. “You know Chainfire?”

||Chainshot, you mean?|| Bumblebee nods. ||Frag, is he still around? I thought he got killed in Karthur.|| He spells out the obviously alien name carefully.

Flipsides signs something else, and his plating settles. “Yeah - he’s dead.” He gives them a considering look. “You two got a medic? Sightline got his comms slagged when those afts bounced him off a wall, and mine went right around the time my audials did.”

||There’s one over in Yooper turf -|| Jazz offers, but Carbine shakes his helm. 

“Ain’t there - he left the city a couple of cycles back.” His gaze turns suspicious. “But everymech knows that…”

||He’s back.|| Bumblebee signs.

“He’s not going to go for it, Bee.” Flipsides doesn’t move. “No offense - but he’s denned in really good. You’re going to have to hack him out of it.”

“Slag.” Bumblebee doesn’t move. “Alright - Jazz, stay out of the way. Flipsides - can you get him to turn a little? I’ll go for the left port as soon as I’ve got an opening.”

“Sure.” But Carbine lets out a low, annoyed rumble. 

“Hey - sign. I want to know what you’re talking about.”

||Sorry, sorry!|| This time, Jazz can see just enough of Flipside’s hands to make out the gestures. ||I just wanted to ask Bee something. Don’t worry, Carbine - he’s good folk.||

He moves closer to the glowering mech, who’s face softens, just a little, as he draws near. ||You trust too easy,|| Carbine chides, half-hiding the gesture, but his gaze is fond. ||You’re sure of them?||

||Very sure,|| Flipsides signs. ||Oh, Carb’ - you’re bleeding -||

He reaches up - gentle fingers brush across Carbine’s face, and he leans into the touch, and the moment his optics shift from Bumblebee and Jazz, Bumblebee is moving. He slams into Carbine at full speed - cable already pulled free - and _wrenches_ \- twisting the metal of the port cover as he tears at the plating -

Carbine is too stunned to react, for an instant - then he rears back with a furious roar, and brings his arm up like a sledgehammer to batter Bumblebee’s whole frame against the wall.

Bumblebee lets out a choked screech as his plating visibly _dents_ \- but it’s obvious that he’s got the heavier plating of a military mech, even as small as he is, and he takes the blow well. The moment Carbine shifts, he’s darting back - and it’s Flipsides, not Bumblebee, who darts in to grab Carbine’s arm, throwing his whole weight into pulling him off-balance enough to prevent another blow.

Bumblebee whirls around him, as if on a spidle, whole frame twirling away from Carbine’s grasping hand, and then he lunges, catching the already-injured limb and bracing, twisting it up behind the larger mech’s back. It’s just enough leverage to drive him towards the ground, and Carbine lets out a pained grunt as he’s forced to one knee with a clang and a snarl of fury - but Flipsides is lethally quick, and a moment later, he manages to sink his unspooled cable home. 

Carbine roars, enraged and terrified all at once - and then collapses, optics going dark as he falls limp. Bumblebee waits, just a moment, and then lets go - shoving the unconscious frame as he does so that Carbine doesn’t land on top of him as he falls.

There’s a long, long klik where Flipsides and Bumblebee just stare at each other, not even seeming to notice Jazz, and the only noise in the tunnel is the heave of heavy ventilations - and then Flipsides lets out a small, earnest chuckle, and Bumblebee chuckles, and they both topple over with exhaustion, laughing.

“Frag.” Bumblebee lean half on top of Carbine’s limp frame, vents heaving with the strain. “Why do we hire mechs that can hit that hard?”

“Since it’s not us they’re supposed to be hitting, I think -” Flipsides gives him a worn-down grin. “Thanks for the save, boss. Who’s the new guy?”

“I’m Jazz,” Jazz offers. “Can I move, now?” 

“What?” Flipsides gives him a confused look, but Bumblebee just waves a hand and gives him a hoarse laugh.

“Yeah - yeah, sorry. Just didn’t want you getting clobbered. He’s much friendlier as Punch, I promise.” The laugh breaks off into an engine cough that takes a moment to clear. “Slag. He’s gonna feel terrible about that, when he wakes up.”

“How long is that gonna be?” Jazz asks. “‘Cause I’ll tell you, I ain’t so sure I’m gonna be carryin’ him outta here. Mech looks… solid.”

“I mean, he should be able to walk out.” Bumblebee considers. “Give me a breem - then I’ll run his overrides, and we’ll bring him back online.”

“Sure.” Jazz shrugs. “ _You_ gonna be alright, mech? That was a pit of a hit -” 

“I should be fine.” Bumblebee sits up with a wince. “Think he knocked a couple of my fans loose, and Ratchet’s going to have a fun time knocking these dents out, but I don’t think he cracked anything major.”

“Thank Primus.” Flipsides looks relieved. “I’m sorry, Bee - he wanted to keep on the move, and I didn’t want to risk the cover unraveling-”

“You did fine, ‘Sides. You didn’t get hurt too badly, did you?”

Flipsides shakes his helm. “A couple of cracked plates, and they bashed me around - I was pretty out of it until autorepair caught up with me, but fortunately, Punch had some fuel on him. It wasn’t bad, honestly - you know how protective the cover can get. He kept me safe.”

“I’m glad.” Bumblebee’s field flickers fondly. “We were serious about the medic, too - Ratchet’s the best in the business, if Optimus is to be believed.”

“Wait - the Yooper medic is one of ours?” Flipsides’ optics flicker in surprise. “Huh, I didn’t expect that…”

“Don’t worry - he wasn’t, until up about an orn ago. Not even.” Bumblebee grins. “It’s been an exciting couple of orns, mech. I’ll fill you in once we’re back topside.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Flipsides nods. “You think we’re good to bring Punch back online?”

“Should be.” Bumblebee considers the slack frame beneath himself. “Jazz - I’m going to have to cable into him to reset his personality overrides. He’s going to come back online as Punch, but you’re going to want to stand clear so you don’t -”

“Get punched.” Flipsides offers, helpfully, and Bumblebee gives him an amused look at the interruption. “He gets a little, ah - confused, sometimes. You really want to be alone in a nice calm room for this.”

“I’ve got it. Stayin' clear.” Bumblebee gives him a grateful smile, and clicks his cable back into the unconscious mech’s port.

Whatever he’s doing takes almost a full klik - Bumblebee is as still as a statue for almost all of it, the faint echo of his clicking fans loud in the quiet.

“There.” Bumblebee glances over, then unplugs his cable and scrambles back. “He should be all set - I gave us a quarter-klik before he comes back online -”

Jazz follows his lead, moving away from the unconscious frame - but Flipsides stays close, optics soft with concern. There’s a still moment, then two - then Bumblebee’s grab at his wrist is the only thing that keeps Jazz from diving forward to snatch the minibot out of harm’s way as Punch’s back arches with a surge.

“Flipsides -” It’s a panicked, garbled yell - a hand, grey nanites already flushing to blue, reaches out to claw for the minibot desperately, but Flipsides doesn’t try to get away. He scrambles closer after only a moment, the very klik he seems confident that Punch will recognize him, throwing his whole frame across the larger mech’s as he reaches up to catch the other’s face in his hands.

“It’s alright - it’s alright, Punch - it’s me -” It’s obvious that the struggling mech can’t hear him, but Flipsides keeps talking, voice low and reassuring, as Punch’s arms come up to catch him - and wrap around him in seeming recognition, pulling him close enough that Punch can roll sideways and get his own frame between them and the minibot. It’s another moment before his optics come online - Jazz can see the yellow glow they cast against the dim blue of the tunnel - and then there’s a pregnant pause as he seems to process.

“Flipsides.” He finally manages to grind out.

“Punch.” There’s a spark-deep _relief_ to the way Flipsides says the name that makes their presence feel almost like an intrusion. “Thank Primus.”

“I can’t -” Punch seems to realize something - he rolls again, twisting this time until he’s on hands and knees, frame sheltering Flipsides beneath him as he turns to look at Bumblebee, then Jazz, dentae bared for a moment until there’s a flicker of recognition in his optics. “Boss? I - one klik - I can’t hear anything -” 

There’s a tell-tale click as he tries to reset his audials - but it obviously doesn’t work; he shakes his helm in frustration at whatever feedback he’s receiving. “Frag -”

||It’s alright,|| signs Flipsides underneath him, and then reaches up to brush a hand against his face, just long enough to catch his attention. ||It’s fine. We’re with Bee. You’re safe.||

||You and Flipsides were injured during a mission,|| Bumblebee signs to him. ||You couldn’t hear your override. We came to recover you. You’re safe, now - we have a team with us.||

“Oh.” Punch looks down at the shredded armor on his forearm. “ _Oh._ I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?”

||No.|| Bumblebee’s gestures are firm - and he gives Jazz a warning glance. ||Knocked me around a little, but I’m fine. Flipsides is fine, Jazz is fine - you’re safe.||

That makes something in the uneasy-looking agent’s frame relax - he slumps, just a little, plating smoothing, and rolls off of Flipsides entirely to lean against the tunnel wall. Flipsides doesn’t stay down, though - the moment Punch is upright and stable, he scrambles into the larger mech’s lap, and Punch runs a hand down his back reassuringly.

“Can you let Prowl know we’ve got him, Jazz?” Bumblebee glances over. “I think we’ll be fine to make it to the surface ourselves, but they should let Ratchet know -”

"I’ve got it.” Jazz nods. >>Prowler? You there?<<

>> _Jazz._ << There’s a surge of relief down the bond. >>Are you alright? You went quiet, and -<<

>>And I’m fine, don’t worry - so’s Bee. Have you managed to get back in touch with Ratchet?<<

>>Not yet.<< Prowl’s voice is tight with tension at that. >>Red is assuring us it’s under control, but he _and_ Hot Rod are both out of reach by comms. You found Punch?<<

>>Yep.<< He shoves the last few kliks of optical feed towards Prowl invitingly - there’s a brief pause while Prowl reviews it, and then a ping of affirmation.

>>Red says to get them both back to base, if they’re not critically injured. It’s not far - can Punch walk?<<

“Hey.” Flipsides and Bumblebee both glance over to him at the word, and, a moment later, Punch notices, and follows their gazes. ||You good to walk, mech?|| He checks his own map, briefly, cross referencing to his map of the city - it really isn’t far, only about two breems of walking. ||‘Bout… eight kilometers or so?|| 

“I’m fine.” Punch nods. “Flipsides -” 

||Hound can carry him -|| Bumblebee hastens to assure him, as Jazz lets his attention flicker back to the bond.

>>Punch is fine. Flipsides might need a lift, though.<<

>>Hound can manage it.<< There’s still an uneasy tension in Prowl’s voice, though. >>Red says not to go near the clinic. Something’s going on - he’s not sure what.<<

>>Slag - I should…<< It _itches_ , the thought of staying away when Ratchet might be in danger, but Jazz resists the urge to _go_ to him. “Mechs - we need to get going. Bee -”

He glances at Flipsides - but the smaller mech is Ops, and when Bumblebee doesn’t seem to mind him listening in, he continues. “Something’s going on with Ratchet. And Hot Rod. Red isn’t saying what - it sounds like he’s got visuals, but they’re both out of reach of comms.”

“What?” Bumblebee bites out something that sounds like a curse. “Slag - let's get moving. You going to be okay to walk on your own, Flips?”

“I could probably use a hand,” the minibot winces as he rises to his pedes. “I’m kind of sore.”

“I’ve got you.” Jazz stands, too. “Here -”

He hooks an arm over the minibot’s shoulder, steadying him as he teeters uncertainly. Bumblebee skirts around them, catching Punch’s arm over his shoulder, and Jazz pauses, just a moment, to check his maps before leading the small procession of mechs out towards the city’s light.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As soon at he pops his helm out of the pipeway’s access grate, Prowl reaching down to help lift him out, he gets a comm, pinging insistently - one of, he realizes half a moment later, several dozen continuous attempts to reach him. 

“Slag -” He cuts himself off as he answers it - and is greeted by Ratchet’s voice.

::Jazz. Finally.::

::Ratchet!:: Jazz can’t keep the relief out of his tone. ::What happened -::

::Not now, Jazz.:: Ratchet’s voice is tight with tension. ::Red Alert said you managed to find our two friends. _Is your conjunx with you?_ ::

::What? Yeah - yes, we’re on our way back to -::

:: _Don’t_ say anything. No one is bleeding out, right?:: There’s a curtness to the medic’s words that Jazz has never heard before, and he waves away Bumblebee’s concerned look as the yellow mech hauls himself out of the tunnels.

::No - we’re all fine.:: He keeps his answer brief.

::Good. Move quiet, stay together. _Don’t_ go back to that place in particular. Take the rest of the group back to that place you wanted to set up a holoprojector.::

 _Oh._ The wording sends a frisson of tension down his cables, and he sends a single ping of wordless agreement back before the connection cuts entirely.

>>On guard, Prowler.<< ::Ratchet’s been compromised.:: He pings it as a tightly-worded message to Bumblebee and Prowl alone - Bumblebee, a moment later, opens the channel to Skids and Hound. ::Someone is watching him - possibly the safehouse, too, he’s not sure. He wants me to take you to the warehouse, instead of back there.::

::Frag.:: Bumblebee’s reply is succinct. ::Skids - take what you can, destroy the rest, and _get out of there._ Prowl - are you good to handle on-the-ground tactical, if I need you?::

:: _Affirm_.:: Prowl pings back.

::Stay in populated areas - get on a train and out of the city. I’ll recall you once it’s safe.:: The orders are curt, and broke no room for debate. ::Red?::

::Here.:: Red Alert replies. 

::We just got topside - what’s the situation?:: 

::Two mechs arrived at the clinic about three joors after Hot Rod and Ratchet - about four breems ago. Well-presented, most likely gang-affiliated. They entered the clinic and asked to speak to Ratchet - I don’t have audio beyond that; that’s around the time I lost comms. Ratchet indicated to me visually that he had the situation under control.:: Red Alert hesitates. ::I advised Hound and Prowl of the situation. However, neither Ratchet nor Hot Rod seemed unduly alarmed by the visitors, and, since Ratchet had deployed the comms blocker, Hound chose to remain with the two of you and allow Ratchet and Hot Rod to handle the situation.::

::That’s not good.:: A pause. ::Hot Rod isn’t responding to comms. Neither is Ratchet.::

::They can’t. Ratchet has physically disabled both of their comms systems. They just left the clinic a few kliks ago - I am tracking them visually via street cameras, and they are both unharmed. Hot Rod appears to be guiding Ratchet in standard Prime’sguard anti-pursuit evasive maneuvers, headed, generally, towards Jazz’s warehouse.::

::He thinks there’s a chance they’re being tracked by a ‘path.:: Bumblebee vents, heavily. ::Slag. Blaster!::

::Right here, mech.:: All four of them jump, at least a little, at the steel-smooth voice in their audials.

::Are there any ‘paths monitoring us?::

::One klik, Bee.:: There’s an odd sensation that makes Jazz flinch, like mesh being dragged over his processors - and then, just as quickly, it’s gone. ::No - you’re clean.::

::Pit. Alright. Thanks, mech -:: Bumblebee vents again as the presence in their processors vanishes. ::We need to get to the warehouse, then. Jazz - you have medical supplies there, you said?::

::Some. Not enough for advanced repairs, but -::

::Ratchet will have grabbed those. I hope.:: Bumblebee drops to all four wheels with a vicious rev of his engine. ::Red - let us know if _anything_ happens with Ratchet. Come on, mechs - we've got what we came for. Let’s get to the warehouse and collect our medic so we can get the _frag_ out of Praxus.::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Here's the next chapter - coming to you a little less edited than usual since my entire town is currently without power. Sorry! Probably won't get it back for a day or two and I have not a lot left on my phone as hotspot - I'll probably pop up a slightly more edited version of this when I get back!
> 
> Like I said last chapter - this chapter will probably wind up getting run through a word grinder once I've finished this whole story, but overall, I'm pretty happy with it! We've recollected our mechs, with only a few minor disasters on the way - of course, now we've got one, more interesting, disaster looming on the horizon... and look at that! Four lovely chapters to resolve it in.
> 
> Minibots. Man, I love them. I kind of picture - and I hope I depicted well, although with only two mechs, it was a little tricky to get across - them fighting like wolves; a close-knit group, working in sync to harry, harrass, and bring down a larger mech. They're not physical powerhouses by any means - they're just too small for a lot of armor, and too light to really bring physical strength to bear in a fight - but they work well together against a single larger target.
> 
> And Ratchet and Hot Rod have... obviously been spooked. Fortunately, it's Ratchet - with the experience - and Hot Rod - with the training - to deal with a situation like this... but we'll have to see what's set them off. Fortunately, with Punch and Flipsides in tow, Bumblebee and the rest can realistically just... leave... but we shall see!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why this didn't show up as a notification (or maybe it did for you all and just not for me) but you should check out the first chapter for a dope cover and some wonderful fanart!

“So… we’ve got to get _all of this_ sorted?” Hot Rod stares, doubtfully, over Ratchet’s shoulder into the clinics storage closet. Ratchet chuckles.

“Not quite. There’s plenty of slag in here that’s gonna just have to sit - or Ambulon can have a crack at getting one of the Yoopers to sit still long enough to sort it for him, they’re usually pretty good about it - but there’s some stuff in here that’s too valuable to want to have mechs that might get… aquisitive… working on.” Ratchet steps into the closet, digs around, and pulls out a tray. “And then there’s stuff like these.”

Hot Rod stares.

“Those are spark chambers.”

“Yes.”

“ _Dead people’s_ spark chambers.”

“ _My_ spark chambers, legally speaking. The people who owned them before me are - and this is critical, kid - _dead._ ”

It’s a credit to Hot Rod’s character - or his training, and Ratchet isn’t sure which - that he doesn’t break and run for it right there. He looks like he wants to, though, so Ratchet ushers him over to a desk to explain.

“Here, kid. Watch.” He’s already got the pan, and the tools, together - he’s been meaning to get to this for a while - and so he picks up one of the spark chambers, holds it firmly but carefully, and with the other hand uses a heavy scalpel to slice through the thick outermost shell in a neat circle, until it falls away. He swaps it out for tweezers, and carefully frees a thin crystal lens, small enough to fit between thumb and forefinger, before presenting it to Hot Rod, who stares at it in naked horror. “See? Easy.”

“ _What the frag?_ ”

Ratchet takes pity on him - current victim or no, the younger mech isn’t a medic-in-training, and it’s not fair to expect him to be completely comfortable with the idea of reclaimation. He carefully sets the lens in a padded box, sealing it carefully before pausing to write down the precise measurments.

“That was a Ianual lens. It’s the most fragile part of a spark casing - and one of the most expensive to replace. A lens like that, new? Around three thousand shanix for the crystal blank - significantly more for a medic with the expertise to grind and set it.” He gives the younger mech a tight grin. “You can live a long time without an Ianual lens - a whole lifetime, as long as you never intend to open your spark chamber. It’s painful, but you can live like that.”

“Oh.” Hot Rod still looks wide-opticked, but he doesn’t look half-panicked, at least. 

“So I collect them.” He gestures at a shelf - dozens of tiny boxes. “Most clinics do. The spark chambers are donated, and I remove the lenses, recycle the rest - there’s enough unadulterated Cybertronium in a half-dozen spark chambers to make the alloy for a new T-cog, if you’re careful - and re-grind them as needed for transplants.”

“Really?” Hot Rod hesitates just a moment before reaching towards the remains of the spark chamber - and hesitates again before touching it. “I won’t damage it, will I?”

“Not at all.” Ratchet picks it up, and finishes twisting it in half before offering one of the halves to Hot Rod. “Look - see that blueish ring, there?”

“Yeah - that’s Cybertronium?” Hot Rod scrapes a fingertip over it, then transforms a claw and manages to catch the end of the strip. Ratchet does basically the same, with a pick - it only takes a moment for him to flick the blue metal into a tray.

Hot Rod holds it curiously in his palm, letting it catch the light. “I would have… I don’t know. I’d have thought there would be more of it, I guess.”

“The Clypeum is lined with it.” He rolls the delicate, almost foil-thin orb into the tray. “It has to be extracted, though - it’s thin enough to be a plating, almost. I usually save them up until I have twenty or thirty, and then toss it in a tank of nanites to reclaim it - it’s the only way to get any real amount back.”

“Wow. And that’s worth…?” He gestures at the handful of metal before spilling it out into the tray. 

“Around an ounce per spark chamber, a hundred shanix an ounce. So about six hundred shanix in Cybertronium, plus the steel to alloy with it, and the labor - a new T-cog will run you around fifteen hundred shanix. Significantly less if you can trade in the old one - discounting labor, I can usually manage a replacement for no more than a hundred shanix, as long as I can take the old one to reforge.” Ratchet vents. “Or the life of a mech, if they can’t afford the replacement at a hospital, and I don’t manage to get my hands on the materials before their processor destabilizes. Welcome to life in a clinic, kid - it’s all salvaging scrap, the walking wounded, and mechs who’ve done interesting things with their spikes.”

“ _Interesting things with -_ ” Hot Rod cuts off with an indignant crackle. He recovers fast, though, shrugging it off into a grin. “So what am I gonna be doing, then?”

“Well, I’ve got two dozen of these that need to be parted out - if you’re not too squeamish.” He adds just a note of challenge to the words, and grins to himself when Hot Rod gives him a defiant look.

“Of course I’m not!” Then he hesitates. “But… I don’t know how to -”

“It’s easy. Sit -” He gestures Hot Rod down with a brush of authority on his field, one that has the younger mech snapping to just as easily as any med student. “Look.”

It takes three spark chambers - another one that he works through, slowly, to demonstrate, pointing out the delicate layers as he does, and then two that he only watches, carefully correcting technique - before Hot Rod is comfortable enough to work on his own. It’s not perfect - one of the two will need to be ground to at least a size category smaller to work out a long, thin scratch left by nervous hands - but it’s the sort of task that builds confidence - and it leaves him free to start working through a veritable mountain of nuts, screws, and bolts.

It’s scut - the worst sort of scut, the type he would assign a new student in an instant, if Hot Rod was training to be a medic - but it’s the sort of thing that gets easier with practice. He knows the parts, and their sizes, by touch - sorting them is as mindless as it is fast, and it buys him a valuable chance to begin reviewing his patchwork patient files as he does.

Hot Rod only interrupts him twice as he works - once with a cracked lens, and once to ask about the odd burned pattern of a coronal flare on the inside of the spark chamber. The curiosity is gratifying in a way that tells Ratchet that it’s been much too long since he’s taken a student, and he pulls out one of his old datapads to explain, in brief but exacting detail, the nuances of physical spark-deep trauma, before going back to his work.

The third interruption is a knocking on the door.

Ratchet glances up, surprised - the knock is too crisp to be any of his usual clients, which means… “That should be the courier with my parts - would you get it? Give me a shout if they want me to sign.” It’s fast - far faster than usual - but he’s not going to shake his helm at prompt service. “There’s a cred chip over the doorframe - tip him twenty percent.”

Hot Rod sets his current spark chamber down - carefully, with a respect that Ratchet is glad to see - and trots over to the door with a thumbs up, palming down the chip before heading into the foyer.

Ratchet doesn’t pay it any more mind until there’s the sharp tone of Hot Rod’s raised voice from behind the door. That has his helm shooting up - “Hot Rod?”

There’s an annoyed, insistent voice just out of hearing range - and then Hot Rod’s engine snarls.

“Yeah, no offense, mech - but it’s the medic’s clinic, and I don’t answer to you. You wait out here.” Hot Rod’s engine rumbles again, a low and continuous threat, and whoever’s outside the door says something inaudible - but a moment later, the Prime’sguard pings his comms. ::Hey, um, Ratchet? I don’t think these mechs are couriers. I’m not sure about the Urayan, but the big one is definitely a tough. The Urayan says he’s here to talk to you - but he won’t say why, and he hasn’t given me a name, either.::

::Show me.:: 

A still of the pair shows up in his inbox a moment later - and Ratchet feels his energon go cold at the sight. ::You want me to run them off, Ratchet?:: Hot Rod offers helpfully, but Ratchet pings back negation.

::No. Invite them in - be polite.::

He hesitates for just a moment - Hot Rod says something to the mechs, but it’s quieter - and then pings Red Alert. ::Red?::

::Yes?:: Red Alert pauses for a moment. ::Unwanted guests? Should I let -::

::No.:: Ratchet doesn’t bother with tact, not with the other mechs already making their way inside. ::Don’t tell them anything, Red. If they ask, I’m indisposed, everything’s fine, I’m handling it. You don’t know what’s going on, okay?::

There’s a moment where Red Alert hesitates. ::Alright.:: A brief pause. ::I am going to -::

::These two work for Titanium, Red. I’m going to drop a comms blocker over the building - they work with a technopath. Allegedly.::

::Understood.:: _That_ , at least, gets crisp recognition from Red. ::If anything happens -::

::You’ll know. I’ll set off the turrets.:: Ratchet spares just enough energy to laugh. ::Everyone halfway to the waterfront will know, Red - don’t worry. They’re not going to touch me.::

::I know.:: Red Alert doesn’t sound happy, but he doesn’t argue.

::Going dark, Red.:: He waits for a ping of confirmation - just a moment - before dropping the comms block over the entire building.

“Ratchet.” Ratchet’s just managed to get his attention back to the doorway fully when the familiar, leggy Urayan saunters through the door. “Good to see you again, medic.”

“Creance.” Ratchet gives the Urayan a bitterly thin smile. “A pleasure, allegedly. Or at least, I’m sure someone, somewhere, has been pleased to see you. Once. Perhaps. And… friend?” He stretches the word out just a second too long - which gets an amused snort from the burly Kalissite. 

“Spatha,” Creance introduces, voice silver-smooth with feigned amusement. “Ah - I remember that tongue from our last meeting, _Ratchet._ Or does your little friend here call you Triage?”

“He can call me whatever he wants, as long as he keeps the Yoopers from roughing up my patients.” Ratchet snorts. “Hot Rod - this is Lord Titanium’s pet turbohound. Play nice.”

“Of course, sir.” It’s not _quite_ what he would have preferred Hot Rod to default to - a poorly-spoken guttermech would be easier to explain, but he has no way to communicate that, now.

“Charming. And very well trained.” Creance gives him an amused look before stepping over to Hot Rod - and then almost up to him, reaching up to turn his helm one way, then the other, in mock examination. Hot Rod bears it with an impassive glare. “Did one of your sponsors buy him for you?” 

“My _amica_ , actually. Shockwave gets so very… overprotective, sometimes.”

It’s not quite enough to make Creance falter - he holds his mettle for a moment longer, though he doesn’t touch Hot Rod again before stepping back. Still - it’s a useful reminder to the Urayan that there are powerful mechs who will _care_ if he winds up dead - and at the moment, Ratchet wants that thought foremost in the gangster’s processors.

“Of course. Wise of him, to keep an eye on such a talented friend. But then, you do keep such _interesting_ company.”

Ratchet has played the fool to better mechs than Creance. “Interesting company?”

“Interesting company. Like a certain enforcer who has recently caught my Lord’s optic, for example - Lieutenant Prowl?” Creance’s smile is venomous.

“Prowl? Yeah, I know the kid. Getting on well with one of my assistants - cute pair, the two of them. Haven’t seen him in a few cycles - I just got back from Iacon. What does Titanium want with him?”

“Well. It turns out that your little enforcer has decided to… go rogue, as it were. Marched into his commander’s office with a gun, and told him he had had a better offer.” 

Ratchet doesn’t bother to keep the grin off his face, at that. “Really - he slagged _Barricade?_ ” He gives an amused snort. “Finally. Or - no offense, were you close? Because that fragger can rot in the Pit, for all I care.”

“As… amusing as the thought may be,” and it’s easy to tell that there’s no love lost there, whatever the story is, “tragically, no - Barricade lives to fight another day. What has my Lord’s attention is who Lieutenant Prowl claimed had sent him - namely, _him_.”

“Wait - Prowl’s working for _you_ now?” The shock is a little harder to fake, but Ratchet gives it his best shot. “Primus - and I thought he was straight-laced -”

That gets him a less-entertained look from Creance. “He _isn’t_ working for Lord Titanium. Hence the… curiosity.”

“You know I’m not going to help you - what, shoot the kid? Besides - Titan’s bought and sold cops before.” Ratchet replies with a snort. “How sure is he that he hasn’t just… lost track?”

That gets a chuckle from the Urayan. “Exactingly.” The long-limbed mech settles against the counter with a smirk. “It’s alright, medic. Lord Titanium hasn’t sent us to make an… example.”

“That was wise of him.” Ratchet glances at Hot Rod - despite the carefully-trained look of disaffectation on his face, it’s obvious that the younger mech is coiled like a spring, and ready to strike. “Considering he still owes me for saving his slagging spark last time.”

“Of course.” And the smirk turns velvet. “And Titanium repays his debts. As I said, we’re not here to cause any trouble. In truth, Barricade has become… well, something of a thorn in our lord’s side, if I’m honest. He forgets himself.” The Urayan smirks venomously. “He forgets the limits of his… authority.”

“And?” Ratchet crosses his arms, unimpressed.

“And watching him grovel for forgiveness because your little enforcer friend put the fear of my Lord back in him was… entertaining. My Lord is willing to overlook his… undue forwardness, in light of that.” The mech’s hands flicker into subspace - Hot Rod steps back, engine rumbling threat, but he’s too well-trained to react without a threat, and Ratchet gestures him back with a single hand. “He is, shall we say, intrigued. He asked us to… send a message. Me to send a message, rather - as he would enjoy Spatha’s message rather… less.”

He offers something - an elegantly-carved crystal box. Ratchet gestures for him to place it on the counter, and, with a smirk, the Creance complies. Hot Rod steps forwards, movements crisp and professional, gesturing Ratchet back, and scans it briefly before picking it up - he examines it carefully from all sides before turning to present it to Ratchet.

Ratchet takes it, and flips it in his own hands before opening it. He’s no expert in Praxian crystal carving, but he’s owned a few pieces - one or two before the war, and plenty more since moving to Praxus, little pieces picked up at street markets or given to him by grateful patients. The box is… expensive, is the most obvious thing; it’s cut from a single sheet of clear crystal as broad as his palm, worked with the elegant, traditionalist iconography of the thirteen Primes, and sparkling with a brilliant fire. 

It’s probably worth three months of his rent for the clinic, but he doesn’t let the fact that he’s impressed show on his face. Instead, he ‘finds’ the magnetic clasp, carefully hidden by some clever faceting that hides the small chunks of neodymium almost flawlessly, and pops it open, unfolding the sheet of flimsy as he sets the box casually aside.

He skims it - and then lets his hand drop, face entirely flat. “You want me to invite Prowl - and his ‘accomplices’, whatever the frag that’s supposed to mean - to a _dinner party?_ ”

“Please, don’t think of it as a _dinner party._ Think of this as an… _audience_ , if you will. And a token of my Lord’s esteem for your friend. I assure you, they'll be perfectly safe - as his guests.” The Urayan quirks his lips. “It’s not often that Titanium chooses to _ask._ ”

“Yeah - I slagging well _know_ that. I just wasn’t aware that the kid had ‘accomplices’, now.” 

“Really.” Creance gives him an amused look. “You were… unaware… of his partnership with Meister?”

Ratchet gives him a confused look. “Who?”

That - for the first time - seems to genuinely catch the Urayan offguard. He pauses for a moment, as if unsure how to deal with Ratchet flatly denying knowledge of not just Meister but of _who Meister is._ “Meister? The assassin?”

“An _assassin?_ For who?” Ratchet pauses. “I thought Titan owned everymech worth a damn in the city, by this point. Can’t he just, you know - comm him up?”

“Hmph. Interesting.” Creance recovers with a smirk. “I’d ask Lieutenant Prowl himself, then. Ask him about his role in the East Side Bridge bombing, if you’re really curious… I’m told it was quite the spectacle.”

“Sure.” Ratchet lets out a heavy vent. “Look - I’ll pass your slagging message - and your little box, whatever. But I’m the kid’s friend, not his minder - I can’t guarantee he’ll show -”

“Pass the message, medic. My Lord appreciates what you do for our city - he won’t hold it against you if Lieutenant Prowl decides to be… petulant.” 

“Thanks, mech.” Ratchet waves a hand dismissively. “Well then. Consider me menaced. Message received - run along, unless you need patching up.” He pauses, and grins. “Or, if you don’t _currently_ need patching up - well, arrangements can be made.”

Hot Rod, thankfully, picks up on what he means with _that._ “You heard the medic. Out.”

That gets a threatening rumble from Spatha - but Creance waves him off. “Of course.” He sweeps into a low, elegant bow. “Your servant, of course, Ratchet. I’ll be seeing you, perhaps.” 

He steps toward the door - but not before shooting a glance back at Hot Rod. “You’re welcome too, of course. Your work with Vortex was… impressive.” The thin grin widens just enough to bare a single sharp dentae. 

“Frag off, mech.” That has Spatha snarl - but Hot Rod doesn’t even flinch at the glare from the taller mech. “Before I give you a reason to take Ratchet up on his kindness.”

Creance gives one last smirk - and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him and Spatha both.

There’s a long moment of silence as they walk away - then, frame moving almost automatically, Ratchet steps to the window and flicks the shutters closed. They stand, for a moment, awkwardly, and then Hot Rod resets his vocalizer.

“Huh. That wasn’t good.”

Ratchet nods his agreement. “No - it wasn’t. I hadn’t expected Titanium to act this quickly - or to connect Prowl back to me so fast. He must have been watching him - Red and I would know if they’d been watching me.”

“Oh?” Hot Rod gives him a curious look.

“Because I’ve been working with Meister for the last two centivorns, kid. I’d be dead.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s… fair, I guess. I lost comms as soon as they came inside - I still don’t have them back -” There’s a nervous tightness in Hot Rod’s frame, and his gaze is on the windows.

“It was my comms blocker, Hot Rod. Listen - I need you to listen to me, understood? Or you’re going to put everyone else in danger.”

“Yes - yes, sir!” Hot Rod’s own expression is deadly serious - there’s none of the teasing casualness from before, just a firm professionalism. 

“ _Don’t. Comm. Anyone._ ” There’s a hint of confusion in Hot Rod’s expression at the words, but he nods. “Titanium, very famously, is rumored to have a technopath working for him. I’m going to disconnect your comms, and mine, so that they can’t track us, but I need to get a message to Red, first - we can’t risk them coming here.”

“You think they’re going to try to follow us back to the others, then?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know - I wouldn’t put anything past Titanium.” Ratchet huffs a vent. “His word is, generally, good. But…”

“It doesn’t pay to take risks.” Hot Rod nods. “You’ll need to disconnect our comms manually, then?”

“Yes -” Ratchet gives him a surprised look, and the red mech quirks a grin.

“I _am_ trained for this, you know.” 

“Huh. Yeah, I guess you are.” Ratchet holds up a hand before Hot Rod can say anything else. “Give me a klik - I’ll comm Red. I’ll keep it quick, but -”

“We can’t risk him panicking and sending everyone this way. Yeah - I can wait.”

“Thanks.” He takes a moment to disable the comms block before reaching out to Red Alert. ::Red?::

::Ratchet. Status?:: Red’s tone is clipped with stress. 

::Fine. All’s well. Keep the rest away from the clinic.:: Red Alert _knows_ how to handle a suspected technopathic intrusion, fortunately - having designed most of the precautions himself - and doesn’t pry.

::Arrangements will be made. Their business has gone well. Attempt contact in a short while, if needed.:: _A short while -_ half a joor, in other words, carefully reworded to deny their potential listener a window of opportunity. Ratchet is careful not to focus on the words, though.

::Understood. Dropping out.:: He reenables the comms block only a moment later - hopefully having left too short a window for the technopath in question to notice the vulnerability.

“Are we good?” Hot Rod asks when he shakes his helm to dispel the staticky feel of the blocker.

“Yeah. We’ll need to get to… the warehouse, I guess. I don’t want to lead them right back to the safehouse. We’ve got half a joor, regardless - I need to make contact with Jazz, first.” Ratchet looks him over consideringly. “You think you’d be able to shake a tail with a boxy mech like me following you around?”

“Probably, if you lose the colors.” Hot Rod walks around him, examining him. “And the lights. Unless - you couldn’t tint those amber, could you?”

“Not without a joor and a tint kit.” Ratchet shakes his helm. “It’ll need to come off - grab a size eight hex wrench from the box over there, I’ll talk you through it.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Hot Rod digs through the mis-matched wrenches - scraps, mostly, that he’s scrounged from other medics who are upgrading or taken from the dead. Training tools, when he’s got a student - or gifts, when a mech needs to do self-maintenance and can’t afford the tools. “This one?” 

“Yeah. Grab some rags, too, and a pair of clippers - I’ll talk you through capping off the wiring.”

“I can handle that.” Hot Rod certainly _sounds_ confident, at least. “Everymech’s got to know at least _some_ first aid in the Prime’sguard - we’re supposed to keep him from guttering until you can get there, after all. Just because I don’t know how to pry apart _spark chambers_ -”

Ratchet ducks his helm in deference to that. “Fair enough. I’ll try not to yelp too bad when you shock me.”

“I’m not going to -” Hot Rod protests, but Ratchet just laughs. 

“I’ve taught dozens of medics, kid. High-amp work is tricky. You’re gonna shock me. It’s gonna be fine.” He chuckles at the memory of a long-gone student. “At least you didn’t just finish touching up your polish. I’ve seen mechs light themselves up pretty good like that.”

“I _am_ going to shock you, and it’s going to be on purpose.” Hot Rod grins, relaxing just a little. “Sit down, old man.”

Hot Rod does shock him - three times, all of them accidental, from the way he winces and apologizes - but Ratchet has worked with too many young medics to even flinch at the electricity arcing between the loose wires and his plating anymore. He waits until Hot Rod is done to offer feedback - sweeping a hand over the carefully-covered bolt holes and neatly-tucked wires before nodding approvingly.

“You did a good job, kid. I’ve had much worse out of new medics - slag, I’ve seen worse fieldwork out of old ones.” Hot Rod blossoms, charmingly, at the praise, flushing and entirely unable to keep the excitement out of his field, and Ratchet gives him a fond smile and a clap on the shoulder as he tucks his lightbar into subspace. “How’s this look?”

He doesn’t overcomplicate the color scheme - all black, with only his own chrome fittings to contrast it. There’s no hiding his headlights, of course - the white-and-red isn’t immediately identifiable as ‘medic’, not in the same way his lightbar is, but it’s out of place on the secure-transport truck he’s disguised as. Still, it’s enough to make him unidentifiable from a distance, and that will - hopefully - be enough.

Hot Rod considers it carefully. “It’ll do.” He taps one of the headlights, obviously seeing the same problem Ratchet has - “These aren’t great, but we’ll make it work. Change back - we’ll try to route through a tunnel once we’re away from the clinic and switch there.”

“How about you?” Ratchet asks. “I wouldn’t use black - Titanium’s mechs will be looking for you, and so will the enforcers.”

“Don’t worry about me!” Hot Rod grins. “I’ve got plenty of presets - I was thinking yellow. Not that it matters, much - they’re not going to be looking for us by color, not if they know what they’re doing. It’s all about framespotting, and - unfortunately - we stick out way too much next to Praxians to blend, there. This’d be way easier in Iacon.”

“Any fun little tricks?” Ratchet asks, curious.

“Nope! Not that we’re going to be able to pull off, anyways.” Hot Rod doesn’t seem worried, though. “If you were another Prime’sguard, I’d say we should split up - you’d stand out a lot less without a hot piece like me around - but I’m pretty sure Ironhide would literally murder me even if I managed to survive Jazz and Mirage and Prowl and Bee all murdering me _first_ so I’m going to stick close, if you don’t mind. Beyond that… drive fast, don’t give away where we’re heading, and hope everyone else is ready to fight our way to the border once we meet up.”

“I’ve gone to war with worse plans.” Ratchet acknowledges with a grin of his own. “While we’re waiting for Red - here. Let me get your comms disconnected.”

“Sure.” Hot Rod eases into the chair obediently enough, tilting his helm to allow Ratchet access. The surgery isn’t hard - it takes a klik to dig out the modified screwdriver that will let him work with the Prime’sguard’s custom-cut screws, but once the panel is open, it doesn’t take long until he’s capping off wires. Hot Rod sits quietly for a klik, thoughtfully, almost, before he speaks again.

“You said you saved his life, once?” Hot Rod’s voice is… curious. A little shy, maybe, and Ratchet huffs at him.

“I did.” Hot Rod looks thoroughly unsatisfied with that as an answer, though, and after a minute, Ratchet lets out a heavy vent. “I didn’t have a whole lot of choice, kid. Couple of goons rolled up, and told me in no uncertain terms what they’d do to me and Jackie if I couldn’t save their boss - well. They weren’t asking me to kill anyone, at least.”

“Was he already in charge of things, back then?”

“Nah. He was important - had his fingers in gambling, drugs, weapons, back then, before he ‘went straight’ and took up accounting, but… he was a powerful mech. Dangerous, even if a single comm would’ve had Optimus himself tearing the city in half to find me, Ironhide on his heels.” Ratchet shrugs, and glances away. “Kind of wish I’d made the call, back then. Praxus’d be a different place.”

“Why didn’t you?”

It’s… not an easy question - it’s one so simple, yet so hard to answer that he barks with laughter. Hot Rod’s optics widen, and Ratchet - Ratchet just can’t help but to laugh as he finishes sealing up his helm and tucks the screwdrivers away..

“Kid - slag, kid, you’re young - you’re so slagging young I _forget._ This? Praxus?” He waves a hand at the window, at the city beyond. “This is just what the world was _like!_ Oh, it wasn’t the gangs, back then, it was the nobles, and the senate, and the council - but up until a couple millennia ago, this was just… Cybertron. Powerful mechs raining down abuse on those without the power to stop them - lords, real ones, demanding things, and mechs like me having to bow and scrape to please them - I have _scars_ -”

He turns, and loosens his armor, and flares it until Hot Rod can see the protometal underneath. “Look at those, kid. Look at them, and tell me who you think did that to me.”

Hot Rod takes a hesitant step closer - and his optics brighten in shock. He reaches out - and snatches his fingers back before he can touch, but Ratchet just gives a low chuckle. “You can touch them, kid - they’re too old to ache, much.”

“Who -” Hot Rod’s touch is careful, gentle, _horrified_ as it traces the white marks beneath his plating. “Primus…”

“The next best thing.” Ratchet snorts. “Sentinel Prime. Or rather, his Prime’sguard. He had me _flogged_ with an _electrowhip_ in the _council hall_ for daring to meet his optics while giving him the results of a surgery _I had just performed!_ And three cycles later, with the cuts still fresh? I get called to the office of the CMO of Iacon General and informed that I had been _requested_ as the Prime’s personal medic.”

“Oh.” Hot Rod’s optics are huge.

“I should have _cut his cables and died for it,_ for what he’d do to Nyon. I should have -” His vocalizer chokes on the words - on the _regrets_ \- and clicks, uselessly, as he resets it. “I should have done a lot of things, kid. Back then - and now. But… Primus, kid. I thought we’d _lost._ I thought Optimus - my _brave, strong, clever_ Optimus had - hadn’t managed to change anything. I looked out the window, and nothing…”

“Nothing seemed any different.” Hot Rod’s fingers draw back.

“I had to see Sentinel _every orn_ , after what he did to me, Hot Rod. I _hated_ him - but he was my protection, too; he was the reason that the Council couldn’t come after my clinic, that the Senate couldn’t have me killed for being anti-Functionalist. I _used_ him.” Ratchet lets his plating flatten again, tucking away the scars. “I got _good_ at using Primes. Using Titanium? It wasn’t any different. I patched him up, and played grateful for every scrap of his favor I could scrounge, and went back to my little clinic and _helped people._ ”

“That’s… that’s worth it, then, isn’t it?” Hot Rod hesitates, gesturing at the spark chambers still on the table. “I - in Nyon, I could never have afforded… well. Any of that. The repairs, the parts - Pit, if we’d known that a spark chamber had a _hundred shanix_ worth of Cybertronium in it, there’s mechs that would probably have torn you apart just for that, and that’s with the fuel. The Prime’sguard - it’s like a whole different world. I just… I get hurt, and someone just fixes me.” He glances away. “I think it’s really good of you, doing that for mechs. Even if they can’t afford it.”

“I…” It’s… a fair thing, for Hot Rod to say - that’s the most biting part. It should be easy - so easy - to agree that he’s done enough. “I should have done more.”

“You did, though!” Hot Rod protests. “You and Jazz -”

“Look - I -” He cuts himself off. “It’s been half a joor, kid. I’m going to call Jazz. You can hunt me up for this conversation once we’re _out of Praxus_ , okay?”

Hot Rod crosses his arms with a huff, and a _deeply_ defiant look. “Maybe I will.”

“Fine.”

He drops the comm blocker - and, mercifully, manages to get Jazz on the first try. ::Jazz. Finally.::

::Ratchet!:: There’s a hot relief to Jazz’s voice. ::What happened -::

::Not now, Jazz.:: He keeps things short - locking down the window their call presents as best he can. ::Red Alert said you managed to find our two friends. Is your conjunx with you?::

::What? Yeah - yes, we’re on our way back to -:: Ratchet has to scramble to interrupt -

::Don’t say anything. No one is bleeding out, right?:: Red _should_ have mentioned any injuries, but… he relaxes a little as Jazz replies, his own words growing clipped as he realizes the seriousness of the situation. ::No - we’re all fine.:: ::Good. Move quiet, stay together. Don’t go back to that place in particular.:: It should be enough to get them moving... ::Take the rest of the group back to that place you wanted to set up a holoprojector.:: He gets a ping of affirmation - and then the line closes. “We’re good.” He gestures to Hot Rod. “Give me a klik to offline my comms, and -” “Can you?” Hot Rod gives him an annoyingly concerned look. “Of course I -” Ratchet softens, just a bit, at the worry. “Oh, for frag’s sake - come on, then, kid, it won’t take me that long to explain -” That gets him a smile as bright as the sunrise, and he can’t help but relax at a student’s careful touch as he explains the components of a comms array.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victory! I have been _so busy_ the last couple of days, friends. Between the outages, and then family showing up, it has been... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaa
> 
> Now that that's out, the chapter!
> 
> I had... a lot of fun with this! I feel like I always say that but it's true. I didn't get to work on it - like, at all - until today (I had like 700 words this morning) so I basically just downed a couple of Monsters and spent the whole day writing, which was fun! The bits with mechs comming between chapters will need some ironing out in post, but they always do.
> 
> You'll note that this is the Ratchet chapter, not the Prowl chapter. That is because the Prowl chapter was just... not coming to me. It will be a second-draft easter egg I think.
> 
> Ratchet, man... He wants to _teach._ Prowl is a character that likes mentoring - it's a valuable skill for an enforcer, because they highly value training and the passing down of experience from within their own cohorts, but Ratchet? He _craves students._ Not just because he taught at Iacon University - because a huge part of being a mature medic is training and mentoring new medics, both as a professional thing and a social one. The war put paid to that, in a lot of ways - he didn't get to have the one-on-one relationship with a student while working with field medics, and then afterwards, he wasn't willing to make a student's life harder by training them while estranged from the Prime and working out of a free clinic in Gang City, so... presented with a vulnerable Hot Rod, you can bet the kid is learning something.
> 
> And you can bet that that something's not going to be how deeply Ratchet regrets not killing a _surprisingly large number_ of mechs on the operating table. Seriously, one day the stress is gonna get to him, and he's going to just off a random mech and run off screaming about their 'dark destiny' or something, IDK. Red Alert is going to feel very validated. Still, Hot Rod is the type of mech to pry, so I guess Ratchet may yet live to regret his loose lips...
> 
> Ah, and Creance. There's a mech I've been waiting on a while. He's kind of a fun character - he and Spatha, who doesn't, for the record, talk, are probably going to crop up again at some point... A Creance, for the record, is the leash you use to keep an untrained falcon from flying off. :D
> 
> Well, we've figured out what Titanium is _asking -_ now to figure out what to do about it. That'll be next chapter - and the rest of this story, I think! Let me know what you think, and, like I said above, check out the incredible coverart Seaquestions did for this story! :D


	11. Chapter 11

It doesn’t take long for Ratchet to show up after they’ve reached the warehouse - Punch is able to transform, but Flipsides can’t, and the minibot rides on top of Hound’s alt, pressing flat against the angular lines of his armor. Hot Rod flips into root mode with weapons drawn as Ratchet makes his own way inside, only following once they’re all under cover.

“Ratchet -” Jazz crosses to the medic as soon as the door clicks shut behind them, wraps his fingers around the larger mech’s ferrules and drags him closer. “Primus - you scared the slag outta me, mech. You’re alright?”

‘We’re fine, yeah.” Ratchet wraps one arm around his shoulder in a half-hug, but it only lasts a moment, and then he’s pulling away. “Titanium decided he wanted a message sent. Not to me - to you. Well, and Prowl.”

“And me,” Hot Rod adds. “But I don’t think they were expecting me to be with Ratchet.”

“Slag.” Jazz curses under his breath. “They smash up your clinic, or -”

“No - no, not like that.” Ratchet gropes in subspace, for a klik, and withdraws a crystal box - elegantly carved, with a brilliant fire to it. “He wants to meet you - both of you.”

“What?” Jazz takes the box from him, fiddles with it for a moment, and then opens it, pulling out a sheet of flimsy. “Oh. Huh.” He offers the flimsy to Prowl, after a moment of consideration. “Yeah, sorry - I can’t read that.”

Prowl examines it carefully. The flimsy is nice - the sort of high-end, delicately-textured material that is used for awards and certificates of merit, cut neatly to size. The handwriting itself is immaculate - elegant looping curves and precise, neat lines that are almost completely incomprehensible. Hound glances over his shoulder, and snorts in amusement.

“Oh, slag, he really does fancy himself a lordling, doesn’t he? That’s Towers script - one klik -”

“I wouldn’t have handed it to you if I’d realized that none of you could _read it_ -” Ratchet huffs in annoyance, but Hound has already started to translate -

“ _Esteemed_ Astynomia _Prowl of Iacon and_ Demios _Meister of Praxus -_ ” He pauses. “That’s sarcastic, by the way - the declination is all wrong - _It would be the honor of the Lord of -_ hm. ‘Lord of my spark’, but it’s in a possessive sense, not a romantic one - _the honor of the Lord of my spark, Lord Titanium of Praxus, if you would be the guests of his table when the -_ oh for Primus' sake, Mirage. Give me a klik, you guys.”

There’s a moment of what is obviously, from the way Hound gestures at the letter, heated disagreement about the translation - and then he glances back. “The point is he wants to see you two at a restaurant called the Blackened Opal at joor thirty tonight, and he promises not to shoot you.”

“That was basically my takeaway, too, yeah.” Ratchet nods agreeably.

Jazz gives them both an annoyed look. “What th’ slag is a _Demios_?”

“Executioner,” Hound offers in reply. “A little politer than calling you a hired killer, but not by much. _Astynomia_ means -”

“Enforcer.” Prowl nods. “We still use it during ceremonies.”

“Yeah, exactly. Sorry, Ratchet - ‘Raj wanted a look.” 

Ratchet huffs. “Fair enough - I’ve dealt with nobles long enough to understand Towers, but there’s plenty of metaphor that escapes me. What gave away that it was for joor thirty?”

“ _When the light shines through the white-glass tower like the veneer of gold on copper_ , apparently. No idea what that means, but -”

“- it’s a reference to the Opalite garden.” Prowl offers - translated, it’s a literary reference that he actually recognizes. “There used to be a massive crystal formation in the middle called the Tower. It got destroyed during the war - cracked right down the middle.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Jazz snorts. “Mechs talk about _time_ like that?”

“Nobles talk about _everything_ like that, Jazz.” Ratchet tosses a hand in the air. “No offense to your conjunx, Hound.”

“None taken.” Hound grins. “Slag, though - this is…”

“A problem for the rest of you to talk about.” Ratchet snorts. “How are you two holding up?”

He turns to Flipsides, then Punch. Punch gives him a thumbs up, after a moment. 

“I’m fine, if that’s what you’re asking. Can’t hear for slag, but I’m not bleeding out.”

Flipsides laughs. “And I’m getting better, every klik. Please don’t stick me in a hole in the floor.”

“Oh for -” Ratchet snorts. “Primus, you’ve already heard about that, huh? Well - if you’re good enough to give me slag, you’re good enough to sit - Bee, come on.”

“What?” Bumblebee, who’s snuck over to Hound to peer, on the tips of his pedes, at the flimsy, glances up in surprise.

“Come on - I want to get you patched up first. You’ll be the quickest, since I can -” and Ratchet pauses just long enough to pointedly examine the dents on his armor with a critical optic - “no offense, pretty much tell what’s wrong with you.”

“I’m fine - Punch needs the repairs more -” But Ratchet steps forward, looming. 

“Look, Bumblebee - you look like slag, and we need you on your pedes. It’ll take me half a joor to get those dents banged out, and then you can come back and plot, and I’ll work on our other idiots.” Ratchet reaches out and wraps a hand around Bumblebee’s shoulder, grip firm.

“Wait - no, take -” Bumblebee tugs his shoulder back, gesturing at the rest of them. “It’s not urgent -”

“Don’ even bother, mech. Wha’ Ratch wants, Ratch gets.” Jazz laughs at the glare that gets him from both of the other mechs, but Ratchet rumbles his engine menacingly, and gives Bumblebee a serious look when the minibot glances back at him.

“Come on.”

Bumblebee gives him an inscrutable _look_ , at that, but Ratchet beckons, and, at last, he follows. Hound glances at the rest of them, then after the pair, and rises.

“Hang on, mechs. I’ll be back in a breem.” He grins. “Just gonna make sure they don’t slag each other.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jazz calls after him, but Hound waves him off. “Huh. Ratch is feelin’ ornery today…”

“I would be, too, if I had gotten a note like this.” Prowl fingers the edge of the box carefully. “Titanium…”

He settles onto the chair, Jazz sitting at his pedes with his back against Prowl’s leg. Hot Rod, Punch, and Flipsides find their own seats - Hot Rod grabs a crate and tugs it over, Flipsides perches in Punch’s lap as he sits, cross-legged, on the floor. The minibot translates as they speak, hands slipping gracefully into sign to clarify the discussion to his partner.

“He’s the big boss, right?” Hot Rod asks. “The way Creance and Ratchet were talking about him - it was like he was a real lord, but…”

“He’s just a gangster.” Prowl nods. “A powerful, powerful gangster, but… he is lowborn. Not -” He emphasises the word - “that I would recommend making a point of that, should the opportunity come up. He can have you killed just as easily as any lord.”

“Pff. He can try.” Beneath the flip reply, though, there’s a seriousness that’s easy to read in the younger mech’s frame, and he doesn’t press the point. “So - what are we going to do about this?”

“Bumblebee will have some idea, I’m sure -”

Hot Rod grins. “Thought he said you were taking over tactical? So - what’s the plan?”

Prowl hesitates. “It’s not my place to -”

“Sure. I mean - whatever, but if it _was_ up to you -” Hot Rod leans in. “I mean, you’re a tactical genius, so it’ll probably come out about the same, anyways -”

“Prowler thinks we should go.” Prowl shoots him a bright-opticked, betrayed look, and Jazz gives a languid grin. “Hey - it’s true, Prowl, might as well say it. I agree, by the way.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Flipsides offers. “I mean, no offense, but that sounds like a fantastic way to get all three of you killed. You want to just, what - walk into whatever setup this mech’s laid out for you?”

Punch nods his agreement at that. 

“That’s the thing, though.” Jazz grins. “This isn’t gonna be a set-up. Titan is powerful, an’ all that, but he can’t keep th’ other ganglords under his pede just by slaggin’ em - they gotta trust ‘im enough ta come when he calls, an’ tha’ means tha’ if he invites you somewhere, he ain’ gonna slag you. Then. Prob’bly. He wants ta know what th’ frag we’re up too - an’ he’ll have mechs rarin’ fer our energon th’ moment we step outta line - but if we go in there wit’ pure an honest sparks an’ all that, he ain’ gonna touch us.”

“And we get - what?” Hot Rod presses. “I mean - what’s the point?”

“We push him.” Prowl pauses. “I have no doubt that, if handled carefully, we could find out all sorts of interesting snips of information about his plans for the city. He’s a confident mech, secure in his authority - he won’t see us as a threat, not on a playing field he’s set up. If we ask him - carefully - he will talk.”

“And then?”

“And then we leave Praxus, Hot Rod.” Prowl shrugs. “Our mission is - as of the moment - complete. We retreat to Iacon, regroup, and recover, and let Nightbeat and Skids - and myself, if I am permitted - to tear apart everything he’s said and form a new plan of attack.”

“Huh. Sounds risky.” But Hot Rod grins. “And exciting. I like it.”

“That’s…” Flipsides hesitates, signing something to Punch, who snorts in agreement.

“Flipsides is right - that’s absurd. You’re going to get yourselves killed.” But he grins. “But, hey, you’re not helming tactical yet, so when better than now?”

“It -” Prowl gives a frustrated vent. “It _doesn’t matter_ , because I’m not planning _anything_ other than a tactical retreat to the trainyards without Bumblebee’s permission -”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hey!” Half a joor later, Bumblebee interrupts their conversations - long-since moved on to other things - to sling himself onto the free corner of Hot-Rod’s crate. “So - I have an idea to run by you guys. It’s dumb, and risky, but Ratchet, Hound and I were talking, and I think we might be able to make it work -”

“Ooo, ooo - is it the one where me and Jazz and Prowl go into Titanium’s evil restaurant to find out his nefarious plot? Because Prowl already told us about that one.” Hot Rod grins.

“He - what?” Bumblebee turns a confused gaze on Prowl, who glares at the Prime’sguard.

“No, sir, I _didn’t_ \- I _expressly refused_ to plan for a mission like that without _your permission_ -”

“He’s been runnin’ it over in th’ ATS fer th’ last half joor,” Jazz offers, grinning. Prowl’s wings shoot up, and he can’t help an undignified chirp of _betrayal_ \- “I think it’s a great plan.”

“Oh. Uh -” Bumblebee looks more disarmed by their enthusiasm than by the fact that he’s been planning, fortunately - he gives Prowl a small grin. “Good initiative, and all that. So - what’ve you got?”

Punch and Flipsides scramble to their pedes and follow Ratchet obediently out of the room as Prowl takes a klik to finish organizing his thoughts. “It’s risky. Obviously - but I believe that, with proper precautions, we could successfully attend the meeting with Titanium without too badly tipping out own hand. Jazz and I are well-suited for such a meeting, especially with my cover as presented to Barricade - if he attends as Meister, with myself acting as a subordinate, we should present an interesting enough puzzle to allow us to guide the conversation substantially.”

“And figure out what his plans are for Praxus.” Bumblebee drums his fingers on the floor thoughtfully. “I like it. And Hot Rod?”

Hot Rod perks up, looking eager, but he doesn’t interrupt. 

“He should come, too.” Prowl gives the younger mech a smile. “The backup will be invaluable if this does turn out to be a trap - and Titanium is already aware of him. He will be expected - they may assume that he is planning something if he isn’t present.”

“The problem is - an’ it’s always gonna be - th’ technopath.” Jazz gives an airy wave. “Not tha’ I - or anymech - knows much ‘bout him. But it’s been rumor fer as long as Titan’s been ‘round that he’s got a ‘path doggin’ fer him - an’ that means tha’ we _can’t_ go in there wi’ any sort o’ plan fer slaggin’ th’ mech, much as I’d like to.” 

“That said - Titanium is… unlikely to harbor many illusions as to our feelings towards him. The fact that we dislike him - no matter how intensely - is unlikely to be a surprise. Even the fact that we want him dead, as long as we don’t have an actionable plan…” Prowl hesitates. “He is unlikely to have us killed. Beyond that… I don’t know how much his technopath could glean from us...

Bumblebee looks considering, at that. “Huh. Yeah - give me a klik.”

This time, Prowl, with an inkling of who Bumblebee is comming, is ready. Jazz isn’t.

::Hey, mechs -::

“Fragging _Pit_ -” Jazz goes shooting backwards, and - yes, that’s a knife in his hand. “Ah - slag, I hate that -”

Blaster’s laugh echoes, rich and _right there,_ in Prowl’s processor, as Jazz’s plating slowly settles. ::Primus, mech, you alright?::

::Go frag yourself.:: Jazz’s tone is grumpy, but Prowl can feel the amusement flickering down the bond as he relaxes, and from the teasing tone in Blaster’s voice, he can too. ::Primus -::

::Sorry. Anyways - hey, Bee. What’s up?::

::Had a couple questions, if you don’t mind.:: Bumblebee’s armor is relaxing, too, and it takes a moment for Prowl to notice him tucking a blade of his own away - and that he’s more than a meter further from Jazz than he had been, optics wide. ::Sorry - Pit, Jazz, relax.::

::It’s cool, mech, I ain’t gonna stab you - just jumpy.:: Jazz nuzzles back up against Prowl’s back, arms folded over his helm to make an elegant rest for his chin. ::Don’ mind me.::

::We all cool?:: Blaster laughs. ::Yeah, Bee? Shoot.::

::So - technopaths. Apparently one of them works for a mech we’re targeting. We need to know what to expect.::

Blaster gives an intrigued hum. ::A ‘path working for him? Or does he just have a commsmech contracted to him?::

::Is there a difference?:: Jazz asks.

::Eh - kind of. I work for Iacon as a comms hub, and Optimus as a technopath. Sounders works for Megatron as a hub and a ‘path - some mechs do both, and some one or the other.:: Blaster laughs. ::Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time some wanna-be lordling had hired a commsmech to convince everymech they could read processors - no offense, but you mechs -:: and there’s a hint of inclusiveness to the glyph he uses, a sense of everymech-but-me - ::tend to assume every mech with a tapedeck is a ‘path.::

:You are, though.:: Bumblebee clarifies.

::Well, I mean - there’s ‘paths and there’s _’paths_ , you know?:: Blaster’s voice rings with amusement still. ::I mean, mechs like me - not to sound too proud of myself, but we’re kind of in limited supply, you feel me? And _expensive._ You’re not going to find anyone at my level working for a single mech - they couldn’t _afford_ it.::

::Titan isn’t a small-time crook,:: Jazz argues. ::He’s in charge of half of the creds that flow outta Praxus -::

::I make thirty million Shanix a year, Jazz.:: There’s a moment of silence as everyone processes that. ::Yeah. I promise, anymech on my level’s got better places to be.::

:: _Thirty million -_ :: Hot Rod manages a vague squeaking noise.

:: _Anyways._ :: Blaster continues. ::So - Titan, huh? You got codes for him, or…?::

::Titanium,:: Bumblebee corrects. ::Unfortunately not. We’ve not actually met him in person.::

::Oh. Lots of cross-chatter involving a ‘Lord Titanium’, yeah. One klik - let me go digging, see if any of it’s being serviced by somemech other than Twincast - Hey, Eject, run the Eastgate boards for me for a klik -::

There’s a few moments of silence - maybe half a klik - where they all just sit awkwardly; Blaster doesn’t recede from their processors as he works, and there’s an uncomfortable sifting sensation in Prowl’s helm. Then, just as effortlessly, he returns.

::Got him. Mech’s named Blackout-Breakout-Chaser-Aero.:: There’s a quiet klik. ::Oh - hm.::

::Blaster?:: Bumblebee asks, which seems to remind the carrier that they can’t all see his data.

::Oh, what? Here.:: There’s a pause, as if he’s sending Bumblebee a file. ::Sorry - just looking at what I have on him. He used to work in Uraya, a mid-level comms handler.::

::I’ll be honest, Blaster, I have no idea what any of this means.:: Bumblebee’s voice is reluctant, as he reviews the file. ::Care to give us the klik version?::

::Relatively powerful, as technopaths go. Good enough to skim multiple mech’s surface thoughts from around a kilometer - not good enough to dig deeper without touching you.:: 

::We can work with that.:: Prowl offers. ::It would be a tradeoff, Bumblebee, but…::

::Around a kilometer?:: Bumblebee hesitates. ::Blaster, how sure are you on that?::

::Very. It’s probably less, actually - but not by much. Why?::

::Because I want to know how far I need to get my mechs if this all goes to the Pit.:: Bumblebee glances at the three of them. ::How sure are the three of you that you want to do this? No one’s going to hold it against you if you just want to get the slag out of Praxus - Primus knows I do.::

::I’m game.:: Hot Rod answers first, voice easy and confident. ::Whatever we can get, it’ll be useful, right? And I’m not letting them go in alone!::

Jazz rubs, thoughtfully, at Prowl’s chevron for a moment. ::I’m down. Ain’t too much trouble for Meister, an’ it’d be bad business fer me ta hide from Titan. We’ll need Ratch out of th’ city, though - I don’ wanna risk him gettin’ shot ‘cause somemech’s finally made th’ connection.::

::Red and I might be able to help with that,:: Blaster offers - but there’s a note of hesitance that wasn’t there before. ::There are ways to keep thoughts in secondary processing, if you know what you’re doing. Actions are a lot harder to hide than background stuff, but if you just want to not think about the fact that you’re working for Ops -::

::That could work.:: Prowl grips onto it like it’s the last piece of a puzzle. ::How would we -::

::We? Well - them. No offense, mech - your processor isn’t the sort of place any ‘path is going to stick around long. That secondary processor of yours will hammer a mech like Blackout to the wall - especially from a distance. Don’t let him touch you, and he won’t get more than static.:: Blaster pauses. ::It won’t be comfortable. That sort of thing is going to be a lot more invasive than Red setting up encryptions - what’s our timeframe like? He’ll need my input -::

::We’ve got the rest of the cycle. Until joor twenty-eight - the meetup is for joor thirty.:: Bumblebee looks intrigued. ::Is that enough time?::

::Should be - like I said, Red’ll have to handle the programming. Probably he’ll need Rung’s input, too -:: Blaster pauses, and there’s a brief moment as the pair comm back and forth on a private channel. ::Yeah, yeah - that could work. Give me a couple of breems, Bee - we’ll get back to you.::

::Sounds like a plan.:: There’s a sense of sudden emptiness as Blaster vanishes from the call, and Bumblebee grins. “In that case… cover stories. Any thoughts? I like Meister as leader - why is one of Shockwave’s mechs working for him?”

“Shockwave’s mech?” Prowl hesitates. “What?”

“Ratchet’s cover for me. Did you know he’s _amica_ with Shockwave, too, apparently? He knows _everybody_ , I think.” Hot Rod rocks back, a little. “I’ve met him a couple of times. He's pretty intimidating!”

“If we’re committed to not placing Ratchet back in Praxus, it shouldn’t be an issue. We can simply admit his involvement with Meister, and burn his cover to preserve Hot Rod’s.” Prowl shrugs. “Or you could be a military friend of his from whom he called in a favor. Or both - a mutual acquaintance.”

“I like the idea of a military friend. We should _probably_ not go dragging _sitting Senators_ into our operation -” Bumblebee starts, but Jazz cuts him off.

“Eh, one sec - Ratch!” 

Ratchet calls back a moment later. “What?”

“Is Senator Shockwave really your _amica?_ ”

“Yeah, why?”

“Is he gonna mind us using his name as a cover?”

“No.” Ratchet comes around the corner, wiping his hands on a towel. “He doesn’t mind much, anymore. I’ll let him know when we get back to Iacon, but he won’t give a slag - why?”

“Easier to keep a lie going than make up a new one.” Jazz grins back at Bumblebee. “Hey - you think he’d let us use his senatorial seal if you asked?”

“I could send him a comm when Blaster gets back in touch.” Ratchet gives a thoughtful hum. “But… well, yeah. Probably. Like I said, he doesn’t mind much. You three are actually going to go through with this, then?”

“Looks like it!”

“Hmph.” Ratchet shuffles his plating a little, sparing Bumblebee a glance. “It shouldn’t take more than another few joor to have these two back operational - at least, to have their comms and Punch’s audials back online. I want them back in Iacon, after that - they may be walking, but they’re in no shape to fight if anything happens.”

“They’ll be able to transform?” Ratchet nods. “Then we’ll get them on a train to Iacon before the meeting tonight.” 

“Good. You three -” He gestures at Prowl, Jazz, and Hot Rod - “You’re next. I want you all in proper shape, if we’re sending you into something this dangerous.”

Jazz gives his retreating back a thumbs up as he tromps back out of the room.

“Huh. I mean, we can work with that, I guess. As long as Senator Shockwave is alright with it…” Bumblebee shrugs. “So - Prowl has been working for you, Jazz, as Meister, since…”

“Since a few decavorns after he came ta Praxus.” Jazz glances at Prowl, who nods.

“I had a crisis of confidence after Barricade tried to use me. Meister had had his optics on me for a few vorns, by then…” Prowl gives a considering look. “The Pyrite killing - that was you, right? I investigated it, at least until it was connected back to you - Barricade pulled me off the case, after.”

“So I noticed you pokin’ around - maybe you got a little too close ta me - an’ I got interested.” Jazz nods. “Works fer me.”

“You came to me and invited me to work with you.” Prowl continues, the story taking shape as he tells it. “Doing -”

“Ratch’s job. Yeah - keep him further away, that works. An’ then…” 

“We went to Iacon to meet with some… interested parties.” Prowl glances at Bumblebee. “We won’t name names - Titanium will draw his own conclusions.”

“Hm…” There’s a faint, amused note to Bumblebee’s field. “And Hot Rod?” 

“If he works fer Senator Shockwave - that is, if Senator Shockwave doesn’ mind - then it doesn’ really matter why, exactly, he’s helpin’ us, does it?” Jazz grins. “Whatever Titan thinks he knows, it’ll be wrong - that’s all that matters, right?”

“I suppose.” Bumblebee glances at Hot Rod. “Are you alright working with that, Roddy?”

“You mean, with being an intercity mech of mystery?” Hot Rod gives a smile that’s _savage_ with delight. “ _Primus_ , yes. Just call me Rod - _Hot_ Rod.”

“Oh Primus.” But Bumblebee laughs. “Prowl, Jazz - help him come up with a decent cover name, _please._ I’m going to go check in with Punch and Flipsides, make sure they’re set up to get out of the city safely, alright? You three - get some rest in. And Prowl - I’ll have Red get in touch in a couple joor, once he and Blaster have had a chance to look things over; I want you to take a good look at the building plans for the Opal, figure out how the three of you can get out if this all goes to slag.”

“I can do that,” Prowl nods - then pauses. “Thank you for trusting us with this, Bumblebee.”

“The two of you - all three of you, honestly - have gone above and beyond anything I expected of you, Prowl.” And Bumblebee gives all three of them a pleased look edged in pride. “You’re going to do just as well with this - I can already tell.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s two joors later - and they’ve _finally_ managed to talk Hot Rod into a codename that doesn’t sound ridiculous - by the time Hound wanders back into the room, examining a gun as long as his leg.

“Be careful with that!” Jazz’s optics go just a little brighter, his voice almost a yelp. “That’s one of Wheeljack’s -”

Hound’s grip on the gun is neat and professional as he lowers it. “Don’t worry - I’m not going to put a hole in anything I don’t mean to. I thought Wheeljack only made safe - well, non-horrific - weapons?”

“I mean - yeah, it won’t do anything other than put a hole in something, if that’s what you’re askin’.” Jazz says, looking a little more confident at the realization that Hound does, in fact, seem to know his way around the gun. “Problem is, it’s a _slagging big hole._ That’ll punch right through the chest of anyone with less armor than a tank, and not in a fixable way.”

“Huh.” Hound examines it. “How is it for post-penetrative accuracy? You were targeting through walls, right?”

“Eh - you’d be better off firing twice, the way that thing shoots.” Jazz reaches out and takes the rifle back. “What sort of shootin’ were you planning ta do?”

“Oh - ‘Raj is a sniper.” Hound hesitates, glancing away. “Ratchet said you probably wouldn’t mind if I took something for him, since we’re going to be clearing the place out anyways.”

“Go ahead.” Jazz grins. “He mid- or long-range?”

“Long.” The green mech smiles back.

Jazz steps past him into the side room and disappears, for a moment, coming back with a different gun entirely. “Right - well, if you want something that’ll go straight through everything between you and your target, this’d be my pick. Wheeljack cuts the bullets custom, so you’ll have to sweet talk Ratchet if you want any more, but it’ll go straight through basically anything short of a couple of inches of steel and keep going.”

“Huh.” Hound examines it, carefully, weighing the weapon in his hand before sighting down the scope. “It’s heavy.”

“Really heavy - something about a magnetographic accelerator, but if you ask Wheeljack he jus’ starts talkin’ about rail guns, and once you put the thought into his helm, you aren’t gettin’ anything else practical outta him until he’s made another _slaggin’_ railgun.”

“Really?” Hound looks intrigued by the concept.

“Yeah, he’s got a whole stack of them. I mean, they’re neat, I guess, but…” Jazz shrugs. “I dunno. Don’t see the point, if you’re not gonna integrate it -”

“I mean, I get why you’d want an external power source as a military frame, but -” Hound nods along in agreement. “Freehanding a railgun - you’re never going to make up in efficiency what you sacrifice in weight for the power supply -”

“Thank Primus! Somemech gets me.” Jazz laughs. “I mean - if I was positioning on a roof, maybe, but there’s no way I’m lugging that out, and I can’t afford to leave something like that laying around - but don’ mention it ta Jackie, ‘cause I’m gonna be real sad if Ratch has ta offline himself ta save Iacon from his ‘junx puttin’ an apartment-buildin’-sized crater in th’ middle of it. His last try miniaturizin’ a power supply didn’ go too hot.”

“He blew up an _apartment building -_ ” There’s a note of deep concern in Hound’s voice, at that. “And you let him _mod_ you?”

His glance flickers from Jazz to Prowl and back, but Prowl raises a hand. “In my defense, no one mentioned his… reputation… before he worked on me for the first time.”

“An’ I ain’t dead yet!” Jazz grins. 

“Fair enough.” Hound's tone implies, heavily, that it isn’t that fair at all, but Jazz just claps him on the back.

“That’s th’ spark for it! You want ta go give that thing a run-out?” Hound perks up, at that. 

“You’ve got a range?”

“Well - a range, a bit of waterfront where you’re not going to hit anything - they’re not so different, right? Red’ll watch out backs.” Hound shrugs, glancing back at the Prowl and Hot Rod for just a klik before following Jazz out of the room.

Hot Rod watches them leave - and then turns back to Prowl with a grin and a flare of mischief in his field, and Prowl feels suddenly, desperately outnumbered. “Alright. But - anyways - I get that Coda is, like, a good, _boring_ name but - hear me out - _Sparkslitter_ -”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… I will be honest friends. I made a mistake, and that is why this chapter has taken so long. 
> 
> I made too many garlicky knots. And then I eated too many garlicky knots. And then I spent the last three days feeling sick from garlicky knots.
> 
> Life is a struggle.
> 
> Now that this chapter is up, though… SHOCKWAVE. We stan an icon! I love Shockwave and what IDW did with him. I mentioned this last time he came up (aaaaall the way back in Five Times, chapter four or five, when Ultra Magnus went to the opera with him) but this is a very IDW-themed Shockwave - a close friend and supporter of Optimus early after his ascension to the Primacy, and one of the first Senators to openly advocate for his social ideals, who got experimented on by the Quintessons. So not quite IDW Shockwave, but personality-wise, very similar!
> 
> And Hot Rod… oh, Hot Rod. He does know how to behave undercover - as we’ve seen plenty - but… that won’t stop him from giving everyone else slag as the opportunity presents itself.
> 
> So... this chapter will be another one that gets hit hard with the editing stick once the other two are done, but I'm okay with that! Next chapter we'll finish up here, and handle the meeting with Titanium - and after that, we'll be - well. Spoilers! And then we'll be done with this section!
> 
> From there... Aaa. So - I have a couple bits I want to do - the Cliffjumper story is almost finished (and the amazing cover is done) so that will go up, and then I think we'll detour to Mirage's past for a bit! After that... we'll probably rejoin Jazz and Prowl back in Iacon for a short five or six parter, and then I might do Jazz's backstory before we head back to Praxus to finish up the main arc! Hot Spot will also probably worm his way in at some point - his story will be a little trickier, maybe a three-shot centered on Ironhide, Optimus, and Nyon and then a five+1 because how he met Ironhide is really cool but the rest of his life has been... less really cool. IDK, I'll work him in there somehow.
> 
> I really really want to do something with Shockwave too tho - he has a dope dope backstory in this AU and I can't wait to write about it - aaaaaaa
> 
> Basically that's the mood for tonight, kids. Limit your garlic intake, and aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
> 
> but let me know if there's anyone else who's been prickling for some attention, since side-stories and shorter pieces seem like they're gonna be the name of the game for the next couple weeks.


	12. Chapter 12

“So - that’s the place, huh?” 

The Blackened Opal stands out even in the dark - even from almost five kilometers away. It’s a tall building spun all in dark glass - except for one long, irregular window roiling up the side, carved into elegant facets that shine with an opal’s colors, lit from within. It’s a landmark - one that, despite predating him by millennia, is synonymous with Titanium.

::Yep.:: Jazz pauses. ::Use comms, kid - Blackout can’t cover this whole area, but tha’ doesn’ mean tha’ Titan can’t have a mech in every shadow. An’ I wouldn’ put it past him - you don’ survive as long as he has without bein’ paranoid.”

::Right.:: Hot Rod doesn’t nod, though - doesn’t give any outward sign at all that he’s heard Jazz, instead scanning the nearby rooftops. ::Slag - are you two sure we can’t have Prowl go black for this? At least approaching - you’re going to get shot, Prowl.::

::I don’t want to give any indication that I’m hiding something, Hot Rod. Titanium wants to talk - he’s not going to have me shot in the streets.:: That said, there’s an itch to his plating that Prowl can’t shake - he’s less certain of that than he’s bothered expressing to Hot Rod.

>>It’s gonna be fine, Prowler. Titan’s mechs ain’t gonna risk shootin’ us ‘less they think they can take all of us - the last thing they’re gonna want is a slagged-off me ‘cause they missed.<< Jazz sounds more confident, and Prowl latches on to that. >>We’re gonna go, we’re gonna have a nice sit-down dinner with th’ nastiest mech in Praxus, an’ then we’re gonna haul aft t’ th’ trainyards an’ _get th’ slag outta Praxus._ It’ll be good.<<

::Alright.:: Hot Rod scans the skyline again - and lets out a low grumble. ::I hate this - even against the sky, I’m not going to see anymech with how the buildings reflect the light.::

::Crystal’s good fer that, yeah.:: Jazz smirks. ::Really, mech. Relax. Stressin’ yourself out ain’t gonna do anythin’ but bring th’ whole mood down, right? You gotta be _suave._ ::

::You’re a secret agent, remember? Not a bodyguard.:: Prowl offers, and Hot Rod snorts. 

::And you’re making fun of me.:: Still, his tone, and his field, lighten a little at the reminder. ::And Coda’s a stupid name.::

::The best sort,:: Jazz grins his reply.

::It was that or Recon,:: Prowl reminds him, pressing a teasing edge into the words. ::And you didn’t like Recon at _all._ ::

::Hmph.:: Hot Rod crosses his arms in a teasing pout. ::Not like it’s gonna come up, I guess. I’m way less interesting than you two - Titanium probably doesn’t give a slag about me.::

::Eh, we’ll see.:: Jazz shrugs, as they near the building. ::You might’ve caught his optic with tha’ driving - I dunno. Probably won’t frag with you much, though - last thing a mech like Titan needs is Shockwave lookin’ closer at Praxus.::

::Insurance for us, too.:: Prowl adds. ::He won’t want to risk getting you involved in a firefight. But cut chatter - we’re at the two-kilometer mark.::

They fall silent as they pass the radius - Prowl can feel the shift in Jazz’s meta down the bond as Red Alert’s programming takes hold, forcing Jazz’s main-thread thoughts into secondary processing and leaving the press of his presence strangely vacant. It’s uncomfortable against his own processors - and Prowl has a sudden, vivid understanding of what his own processors must feel like.

>>Nah, you feel fine, Prowler. Little jaggy, but it ain’t bad.<< Jazz flickers teasingly, experimentally, down the bond. >>Nothin’ like this - slag, that’s uncomfortable. I don’ have th’ bandwidth fer this, not if this does turn inta a fight.<<

>>Shoot the technopath first, then.<< Prowl offers pragmatically, and Jazz laughs.

>>I can do tha’.<<

He goes quiet again as they approach the building proper. The street outside is well-lit - and well-guarded. A pair of towering, immaculately-presented mechs, armor a dark blue-tone black edged in silver, regard them, each holding a massive rifle. 

Jazz steps forward as they approach, taking the lead - in the light, his armor makes him look like a shadow coiling out of the darkness, only the thin blue line of his visor making it clear that he _is_ a mech. Hot Rod and Prowl move to flank him, demurely, as he strides to stand in front of the guards.

“Meister?” The guard on the left asks, shifting slightly to regard him, but betraying no unease - even his field is carefully, professionally controlled.

“In th’ metal. Your boss sent me a note?”

“Of course, sir.” The guard’s tone is exactingly respectful. “You can go inside - Lord Titanium is waiting for you on the uppermost floor. The elevator will take you up.”

Jazz spares the mech a nod of his helm, but says nothing else as he glides past him into the elegant building.

The Opal is refined. Understated, even - despite the white enamel glinting with flecks of color, the furnishings themselves are high-quality but not gaudy. The broad bar is empty - the whole lower floor is empty, though Prowl can, if he focuses, make out footsteps a single floor above.

>>Probably hidin’ everymech away so they don’ try anything.<< Jazz comms. >>’s a nice place, though. Ain’t ever bothered ta try anythin’ here - was kind of expectin’, I dunno, gilt an’ slag.<<

>>Titanium _is_ a Kaonite,<< Prowl pings back. >>I wouldn’t have expected anything too gauche - the region’s style tends towards -<< He pings Jazz a file of round-edged, unadorned buildings and neat, industrial lines, an influence that, looking at the decor, is unmistakeable.

>>Huh. Tha’s pretty awful,<< Jazz agrees. >>Gotta say, I ain’ one for regionalism, but I prefer th’ crystal.<<

The elevator doors slide open at their approach - as they step inside, they slide shut, and after a moment, the elevator starts to slide upward. There are no interior buttons.

>>Oh -<< Jazz pauses. >>Oh, I ain’ a fan of tha’.<<

Prowl pings back wordless agreement - but the elevator continues, regardless, the soft chime of a real bell sounding a klik later as it settles smoothly to the top.

The elevator doors open on a neat landing - well-lit, elegant, a branching crystal trained up one wall to cascade across the ceiling in more traditional Praxian style - there is a light behind it, sending shards of rainbow light cascading across the room. A single mech - almost indistinguishable by his paint from the two at the entrance, though obviously Kaonite by his frame - greets them with a polite bow as they emerge, gesturing them to a wide-slung door.

He steps into the doorframe as it opens with another bow, this one more sweeping. “My Lord - Meister, and companions.” The introduction is framed in elegant glyphs, and the mech holds the pose for just a moment before stepping aside to let them enter.

The room they enter is empty, save for a long, elegant table across from the door - and the vast milky glass of the rainbow window pouring down the rightmost wall. Inside, so close, the facets are less obtrusive - the city glints just beyond, obscured only lightly by the lines of amber and reds that reflect the room’s own, dimmer lights. 

Titanium sits, a broad wall of sweeping silver lines, across the table, watching them with curious red optics. To his side, indeed, sits an elegant black commsmech, plating polished to a mirrorlike gleam, a lithe cybercougar resting its helm against his knee - the only movement in the black mech’s impassive frame is a slow, gentle stroking. Two hulking guards bracket Titanium’s frame, their poses easy and confident, and a wiry Urayan stands at the far end of the table, attentive - some kind of manservant, Prowl guesses, but he can’t pay the mech any more attention than that, because as the door slides shut behind them, Jazz is stepping forwards.

“Titanium.” Jazz grins, and there’s a feral edge to it. Prowl can feel it, real and sincere, humming down the bond - the urge to lash out, barely contained. He pushes calm down the bond, and Jazz steadies. “A pleasure to meet you at last.”

“Meister.” The silver mech’s nod of greeting has the same foreboding edge. “I’ve heard much about you, mech. Consider me… intrigued.” He gestures at the table in front of him. “But please - I forget my manners. Come, sit with me -”

The table has an elegant spread - a shared plate of delicate trifles, a handful of sweeping glasses full of bright energon - even a few delicacies that Prowl can only guess are Kaonite in origin, piled high with metal shavings and thick, whipped oil.

Jazz approaches confidently, Prowl a step behind him, and sits. Prowl waits, just a moment, until Jazz gestures him down - Hot Rod standing at his shoulder until Jazz crooks a finger at him. “Sit, Coda. Titanium here’s a _gentlemech -_ be polite.” He reaches out and, with a steady confidence, lifts a glass of something fizzing - an elegant energon drink that Prowl doesn’t recognize - tips it to Titanium, and drains it. >>An’ maybe don’ mention that to th’ boss,<< he tosses the thought to Prowl, who pushes back amusement as he slides into the seat.

“Sir.” Hot Rod ducks his helm deferentially, and sits. Titanium gives a thin smile.

“I’m glad to see you’re so reasonable, Meister. Or -” He pauses. “May I call you Jazz?”

Jazz doesn’t falter at the name, though, lip curling in annoyance. “My friends do, on occasion. We friends, Titan?” There’s an impatient flicker in the silver mech’s field. “Yeah - that’s what I thought. Let’s keep this nice an’ professional, shall we, mech?”

“Of course… Meister.” There’s a pause. “And of course, the talented young thorn in Barricade’s side. Prowl.”

“A pleasure.” Prowl doesn’t bother trying to sound enthused.

“You put on quite the show for us, Prowl. Impressive driving. A shame you couldn’t have been here for the… aftermath - but, actually -” He waves a hand, and a long-limbed Urayan mech approaches with a sweeping bow. “ _Kue thui, le de nara Bearicait tvoss_ \- one klik, if you’ll bear with me - _drovva doshi Praaul , kue ne abarratha -_ ”

Prowl glances sideways - Jazz looks just as lost as he is, but Hot Rod, catching his optics, gives a slight nod. “ _Drov ne dosh nos._ ” He interjects, as the Urayan nods - getting a surprised glance from the other mech - though Titanium seems unperturbed. He waves at the guard again, a dismissal, and turns to Hot Rod.

“ _Atho - ie var teht ne Cota teht? Nar, Crance a jibbor - teht ne Huet Roj - anna Shetkwaet sorch. Ur de nedawar ne meikos ne Raetcht - var sorch var ne huerchel var Priim Raetcht? Tarra ne dosh alkeptar, arra -_ ”

“Dra - atho Shetkwaet’r sorch var Raetcht. Driev atho huerchel ne Praaul ys Maistar - ys tra ne jodd nar, Tytanam.” Hot Rod pauses, and gives the smallest grin. “Sennentu atho nar.”

“Of course.” Titanium bows his helm politely. “I wouldn’t think of questioning your loyalties. Still, it’s a pleasure to meet such a talented young mech - I’ll admit, Creance would have had me believe that you were mere dumb muscle, but I’m well aware of how looks can decieve.”

He gestures to his own frame, the wall of gleaming metal, and Hot Rod nods his helm. “Shockwave has little use for those who can’t keep up with him.”

“I’m sure.” The Urayan returns, as he says it, with a datapad, and bows to Hot Rod as he offers it - as Hot Rod takes it, he steps away to stand at the end of the table again. Hot Rod, for his part, takes a moment to examine the datapad carefully, fingers tracing over it, before turning to offer it to Prowl.

Prowl takes it, and hesitates, glancing at Titanium - who smiles. “A recording.” He gestures at the pad. “Of how well your little… lesson… reminded Barricade of his place. It’s my understanding that there’s no love lost between you?”

“None in particular,” Prowl replies uneasily, but Titanium’s look of amusement only deepens. 

“Then you’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.”

“Thank you.” Prowl lets it slip into his subspace without even onlining it.

“Mm. A shame, the company you keep - Barricade has been slipping more and more, lately. Had you expressed the interest… well, you could have gone far in Praxus. Still, one can’t help admire a mech of such unshakeable principles - your dedication to your duty does you credit, enforcer.”

Prowl hesitates a moment before offering, “Thank you,” again.

“But you didn’ invite us here ta swap vids, mech. What’s got th’ Lord of Praxus calling on us?” Jazz takes over the conversation effortlessly, distracting Titanium’s attention with a sweep of his hands. “‘Cause I wasn’ aware tha’ a little uncomfortable familiarity was enough ta get an audience wi’ th’ mech himself - or I’d’a started mouthin’ a long time ago.”

That has the guard at Titanium’s shoulder shifting unhappily at the disrespect - but Titanium, himself, just offers an unpleasant smile. “Perhaps I just wanted to meet you? There are plenty of mechs who would be very pleased if I ordered you dead, Meister. You’ve made powerful enemies.”

“An’ if I thought you were th’ sort of mech that cared what other mechs thought ‘bout him, I’d be worried.” Jazz smirks. “‘Course, we’d be livin’ in a very different city, if that was th’ case.”

Titanium laughs - a deep booming sound curling with amusement. “Primus - you are a _bold_ one.” When he smiles, though, his dentae are bared. “Fortunately, you’re also correct.”

“I usually am.” Jazz leans back, letting his arm drape, posessively, over Prowl’s chair. “So - what has you rumblin’ about, scarin’ my Prowler’s little friends? ‘Cause I gotta say, there’s easier ways to get in touch if you jus’ wanted a chat.”

“Are there?” Titanium looks intrigued, gesturing with his cube for him to continue.

“Oh, slag, yeah. Mech like you? All you gotta do is make a bit of a regular thing of standin’ on a nice exposed rooftop, preferably alone an’ without any weapons. I promise - I’d’a made th’ time ta swing by.”

That gets another rumble from the mech behind Titanium - but he waves the tank’s aggression off with a laugh, this one more genuine. “Fair enough. I’ll… keep it in mind. And yet Blackout here says you didn’t come to kill me.” He gestures at the impassive, masked commsmech, who shifts, ever so slightly, to regard him.

“Well, it’d be rude, killin’ ya after you went through all this trouble.” Jazz shrugs offhandedly, picking out a trifle from the tray with a carefully calculated dismissiveness. “An’ I’ll admit - you had me curious. I’m a curious mech.”

“You are.” Titanium agrees easily enough, sipping his own drink. “I’ll admit, _I’m_ curious. What _is_ your plan for Praxus?”

“My plan?” Jazz doesn’t quite manage to hide his honest surprise - Prowl can feel it, down the bond. “Who says I have a plan for Praxus?”

“Feldspar does. And Rhodolite.” Titanium raises a hand, counting the names off. “Malachite. Ashlar. Nitre. Alabaster. Onyx.” He pauses for a long, long moment, setting his cube on the table. “Euclase.”

“Go frag yourself.” The surge of _hate_ that roils down the bond threatens to overwhelm - Prowl reaches out, puts a hand on Jazz’s shoulder, to comfort him or hold him back he’s not sure - and the technopath’s helm dips, ever so slightly. “Go frag yourself, you Pit-bound bastard -”

Titanium looks victorious, rising to his feet opposite Jazz to mirror his aggressive posture, but there’s no threat in his field, just satisfaction. He reaches out, across the table, as if to touch Jazz’s shoulder - but the moment his hand is near enough, Jazz twists, and Prowl isn’t fast enough to stop him from sinking his dentae into the larger mech’s hand - 

The room freezes for a moment - less than a moment - and then there’s a rip of sound - Titanium’s guard lets his engine roar, and Hot Rod is on his pedes, his own engine revving a reply, and Prowl is debating keeping his grip or going for a gun when Titanium’s voice rumbles:

“ _Enough!_ ”

Instantly, the room goes still again.

“Meister. My hand?”

Jazz lets out a feral snarl - but Prowl tugs his shoulder gently, almost inperceptibly, and he releases his lock-grip on the other mech’s hand, turning to spit wet energon across the floor before returning his glare to the larger mech.

“We ain’t friends, mech. You ain’t slag. Don’ touch me.”

“Message received.” Titanium takes a klik to examine his hand - the wound is deep, energon flowing freely as his nanites struggle to close the punctures. “I am sorry about your brother.”

“Frag yourself. Ain’t like you haven’t had a hundred other mechs’ brothers killed.” And the urge to lash out may have faded, but there’s a deep and angry edge to Jazz’s tone. “Ain’t like you wouldn’ have done th’ same slagging thing as Eu - an’ you’d of gone th’ same way as him, too. Woulda torn out your Primus-damned _spark._ ”

“You might have tried.” Titanium smirks, his whole frame relaxing as he settles back into his seat, wrapping one of the napkins around his hand, ignoring the spilled glass of energon where Jazz’s initial surge has knocked it, foam and all, to pour across the tabletop. “But I assure you - when I kill brothers, I kill the _set._ Unlike Euclase, I _don’t_ leave loose ends.”

He glances at Prowl as he says it - and the uncharacteristic nakedness of the threat is enough to make Prowl bark a laugh. Jazz, his plating flaring in aggression, turns to look at him bright-opticked - and Titanium seems entirely taken aback.

“Was - were you threatening my _brothers?_ ” Prowl shuffles his plating neat, narrowing his optics. “As if I wouldn’t have arranged their protection? My brothers are nowhere you can reach - I saw to that the moment Barricade gave away that he’d tried to have me _killed_ -”

“As soon as he - what?” Titanium, for the first time, seems truly surprised. 

“He tried to have me _shot_ \- in Iacon, when I went to visit my injured brother -” It will be easy enough for Titanium to confirm, at least. 

Titanium’s optics narrow, and he shifts just a fraction towards Blackout. “Did he.” His voice is flat, and there’s something furious under it.

There’s a moment’s pause, and then: “Yes, my lord.”

“ _Really._ ” Titanium’s gaze turns more fully to the black-plated mech. “Contact Creance - tell him that I want our involvement with Barricade _terminated._ ”

>>You good with that, Prowler?<< Jazz’s voice, down the bond, startles him - but Titanium is, fortunately, too distracted to notice the jolt.

>>What?<<

>>Lettin’ Titan have Barricade. I’ll ask fer him fer myself, if you want - bet Titan will even give ‘im ta me, he looks slagged.<< The tank’s armor is flared with frustration, and Prowl debates it, but…

>>No.<< He pauses. >>Titanium can have him - I don’t want us owing him.<<

>>Don’ give him th’ satisfaction? I can see it.<< Jazz drops back down the bond as Titanium looks back to Prowl.

“Hm - a real shame, then, that we couldn’t have come to an arrangement. It seems I am in need of an enforcer commander.” Prowl gives him a considering look. “But I assure you - I have no intention of threatening your brothers. Indeed, I have no intention of threatening _you_ \- bringing you here was another of Barricade’s follies, not mine.”

“I had no idea you were so… fond… of me?”

That gets him an amused snort. “Hardly. But assassinations… well. There’s a balance that has to be struck.” His gaze drifts to Jazz. “Otherwise you begin to attract _attention._ And _attention_ is bad for business - especially when it comes from a mech like Ultra Magnus. But - back to the question at hand: what _do_ you have planned for my city?”

It’s Jazz who replies, waiting, for a single klik, to select and eat one of the delicate pastries before he speaks. “Gonna tear you apart, mech. Not just you - all th’ little monsters you’ve dragged up from th’ crust - gonna kill you all, or die doin’ it. An’ then I’m gonna crack this city open like a _geode_ \- an’ see what happens when th’ light hits it.” He licks the last oil residue off his fingers as he says it - and lets his fangs be bared.

“Really?” That gets him an amused look. “So you - what? Plan to save Praxus from my vile clutches and redeem her?”

“Yeah - somethin’ like that.” Jazz glares back at Titanium with leveled optics. 

“Hmph. It’s a lifetime’s work,” Titanium offers, draining his own drink and letting the slight glass roll contemplatively between his fingers.

“Yeah? Well, seems ta me that ‘til one’a your mechs manages ta off me on a lucky shot, I got -” Jazz pauses exaggeratingly for effect, as if checking his chronometer. “Look a’ that. ‘Bout a lifetime ta go - an’ let me tell you, I ain’ been impressed by th’ shootin’ in Praxus thus far.”

Titanium lets out a low rumble of a chuckle. “I’m glad to hear that you’re committed. Indeed - I wish you well.” 

Jazz gives him a surprised look, at that. “What?”

“My business in Praxus is, I’m afraid, drawing to a close. I’ve done what I set out to do - built an empire, made my name - but I have no intention of dying to protect it, Meister.” Titanium picks up one of the elegant trifles carefully and lifts it to his mouth, wiping his fingers clean on one of the elegant meshes before he continues. “In fact, consider this meeting a… warning, of sorts.” He smiles almost fondly. “That’s not a threat.”

“Oh?” Jazz narrows his optics.

“It isn’t. In fact, I am quite intrigued by your work. Having an assassin of your calibre ‘working for’ me has been _useful_ \- it’s why I never bothered to… clarify our relationship to Barricade. You’re a talented young mech - the sort of talent that needs to be nurtured. I consider it a great shame I couldn’t have been the one to take you in hand.” Titanium leans in, just a little. “The Prime has been moving in Praxus, Meister. Your little friend there? He’s not the only one of the Senate’s turbohounds that has been sniffing around this city. I would watch myself, were I you.”

“Thank Primus you ain’t.” But Jazz gives Platinum a curious look. “So - what? You just gonna give the city over ta th’ Prime?”

“Of course not.” There’s a dryness to the larger mech’s chuckle. “That would hardly be fair to the mechs who have worked so hard to carve out their places here. But I have no interest in remaining to fight for the scraps - the Prime’s mechs and the gangs can fight it out, and I? Shall leave them to it.”

“That’s slaggin’ cold, mech.”

“That’s business.” Titanium shrugs. “The mechs who have earned their places -” He gestures at the Urayan, and the guards behind him - “will have them. The cunning will endure.”

“You spent th’ last, what, two millennia rulin’ over th’ city, an’ you’re just gonna dump it?” Jazz sounds disbelieving, and Prowl shifts, uneasily, beside him. The thought of a Praxus without Titanium… 

“The gangs will run wild.” He says it certainly. “You’ll destabilize the whole city - and -”

Realization strikes like lightning. “And that’s what you want - you _want_ Praxus to tear itself apart, because no one will bother to follow you until it’s too late -”

“And I’m a million miles away from here, wealthy beyond imagining, with nothing at all to tie me back to Praxus.” Titanium smirks. “I rather thought you’d be clever enough to figure it out.”

“Why th’ slag would you _tell_ us -” Jazz pauses. “Oh. _Oh._ You’re - you _were_ recruiting.”

“Certainly - though I think we are well past that. Considering how our discussion has gone so far… well, as I said: you’ve amused me - both of you. I consider a warning fair repayment of that.”

“An’ if I take th’ warning as a time limit?” Jazz leans in, dentae bared.

“To kill me?” Titanium laughs, optics brightening in amusement. “What - as revenge? Meister - oh, Meister, you’re welcome to try.” He cocks his helm to the side, considering, as his voice turns deadly. “Plenty of mechs, I promise you, have _tried._ ”

“True. But they weren’ me.” 

Titanium rises to his pedes - and gestures to the window. “Walk with me, Meister.” 

Jazz hesitates only a moment before following - but the guards don’t move at all. Neither does the carrier, except to track Titanium with an expressionless gaze, helm shifting only slightly to follow as he moves across the room.

>>Be careful -<< Prowl pings, uneasy - Titanium’s back is open, but the mech’s armor is thick -

>>I ain’t gonna go fer him, Prowler.<< Jazz pushes back reassurance. >>I’m good.<<

“Praxus is beautiful, isn’t she?” Titanium stands back to gesture at the city as Jazz nears the glass - and, even from where he’s sitting, Prowl can’t help but agree. Can feel the way Praxus’ glimmering towers, and the lights, call to Jazz, too - the deep thrum of fondness, of home, the sight of the city laid out before them inspires.

“She is.” Jazz stares for a moment, captivated - presses a hand to the glass as he does. “Be a lot more beautiful without th’ rust under th’ surface, though. Be a lot more beautiful withou’ you.”

“She would.” And there’s something unkind and venomous as Titanium steps up behind Jazz, frame large enough to overshadow him entirely. “And perhaps without me to keep an optic out, you’ll even manage to do it, Meister. Perhaps you’re the knife in the shadows she’s been waiting for. But let me tell you something, Jazz…”

He leans in, and there’s something deeply ugly in his voice when he speaks.

“I have wrested control of every inch of her, survived every attempt to kill me. I didn’t bring the gangs to Praxus, Meister - but I took them in hand and _thrived._ ” Titanium gestures at the spires around them, the glinting crystal. “If you want to kill me? If you think you have what it takes to do what a _city_ couldn’t? You’re welcome to _try._ ” And there’s a sneer to the word as Titanium says it, straightening, moving around Jazz to look out over the city - 

And then the window explodes in a shower of glass, and the silver mech’s frame crumples, too slowly, to the ground, half of his helm carved away by the crack of a gunshot echoing across the rooftops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aard can have a little dramatic irony. As a treat.
> 
> Oh man, I don't want to say too much b/c spoilers - so I'll talk about my dope building instead! The Blackened Opal is basically the epitome of ritzy pre-war (the Quintesson one) golden-age architecture. So it goes way back - and it's kind of a Praxian landmark. 
> 
> Basically, unlike most buildings in Praxus, the Opal is entirely made of glass. It's the only glass-front building in the city, in fact - most buildings use crystal, but that would have been impossible because of the sheer _scale_ of the Opal. It's an eight-story building where each wall is made of sheets of thick glass, faceted to look like a single pane. The walls themselves are a sort of smokey-quartz glass, grey during the day but black at night, and there's a huge window in moonstone glass like this: 
> 
> https://moltenaura.com/product/moonstone
> 
> That has been faceted so that it reflects reds, greens and golds like an opal. Basically, it was ungodly expensive when it was made, fell into disuse when fortunes for the lord that commissioned it changed, and was basically an unused landmark until Titanium purchased it and had it redesigned into a restaurant/seat of power when he took over.
> 
> Like I said, I don't want to talk too much about the particulars of what's going on in Praxus - and this chapter will be _yet another_ I wallop with the editing stick as I make everything line up - but I love the hell out of some speculation, so go right ahead. Hopefully things will click a little for you all with some of the hints I've given... :D


	13. Chapter 13

There’s a moment of stunned silence, as Titanium - like a cliffside giving way to the Rust Sea - crumples, frame falling in almost slow motion as the silver of his armor begins to fade to grey. A moment of shock - Prowl can hardly think, movement is entirely beyond him -

Jazz recovers first.

First of _anymech -_ he spins, hand dipping into subspace as he does, and he’s firing as soon as the weapon is up - there’s a horrific scream, and Prowl has just enough time to see Blackout collapse, keening, over a greyed frame before Jazz manages the shot and his helm, too, explodes outward in a shower of energon and metal -

Then Hot Rod is beside him, shoving -

“Go!” He pushes Prowl towards Jazz, half-tossing him across the room, and Prowl stumbles, still disoriented - but Hot Rod surges past them, towards the window, and _leaps_ \- and the _plan_ comes rushing back to Prowl -

He wraps his hand around Jazz’s wrist and _drags_ him towards the window just as the guards recover enough to begin firing. 

>>Jazz! Magnets!<<

There’s a brief fraction of a moment of confusion from Jazz - and then recognition, just as Prowl latches onto his shoulder and throws them both, bodily, out of the window.

There’s a flash of pain, white-hot, ripping across his shoulder - but Prowl clings, desperately, to Jazz’s frame - and Jazz twists them in the air, one hand, then the other, managing to latch onto the metal frame of the building. Prowl clamps his armor tight, as they slide, ignoring the pain - it’s enough to keep the glass shards away from his lines as they ride the girder down, though they scrape deep gouges in his nanites.

They slam into the the ground, glass shards the size of limbs all around them - Jazz grabs his hand and drags them both into a sprint as bullets splinter the road behind them. “Go - go go go go go -”

As soon as they’re clear of the worst of the rubble, Jazz lets go, tossing himself forward and into alt, Prowl a moment behind him, and they both rip up to speed -

::Jazz - Prowl, Hot Rod!:: The moment they have a chance to focus, Red Alert’s voice is in their audial - a warm, comforting presence that Prowl latches onto as he tries to bring up his maps. ::Head north - we need to get you to the trainyards. Take the E412 onramp onto Meridian Parkway, heading north -:: A set of geonav directions blooms across Prowl’s geonav, and he pings receipt.

::What the slag -:: Jazz’s voice is a knot of tense static. ::Red - was that _us?_ ::

::Me.:: Hound’s voice is steady and confident. ::Or rather, ‘raj took the shot -::

::What the frag, mech -:: Jazz lets out a snarl.

::Jazz - is Titanium dead?:: Bumblebee’s voice takes precidence on the channel, drowning out anything else Jazz might say.

::Frag yourself, you treacherous little slagger - could have gotten us all _killed_ -:: There’s a spray of bullets as Jazz swerves, forcing Prowl sideways, too - checking behind him, Prowl can make out at least a dozen mechs in pursuit -

And then Hot Rod is ripping past them, engine roaring, brakes screaming as he drifts into the turn, and there’s the vaccuous thump of expanding gas as a rocket streaks towards the pursuers. 

There’s a fierce delight in his field as the rocket strikes, expanding in a broil of heat and flames around two of the guards - and then he’s looped around them fully, and bears down on the remaining mechs at full throttle, bullets pinging off his heavy plating as he returns fire. 

::Jazz - _is Titanium dead?_ ::

Jazz lets out another furious snarl, but he follows when Prowl loops up onto the highway. ::Hound blew his slagging processor to shards, mech - _shut the frag up I’m busy!_ ::

::Hound - withdraw -:: Bumblebee gives more orders, but Prowl doesn’t bother to register any of them, not until he hears his name again - the world narrows to himself, Jazz, and their pursuers, and the road -

And then Bumblebee’s voice cuts through again, half a klik later. ::Hound says you got shot, Prowl? Status?::

:: _Non-critical._ :: He pings back the wordless response, then elaborates. ::Major damage to one shoulder assembly, minor energon bleed, minimal coolant loss. The damaged hardware is non-functional in my alt, but I won’t be able to do any rapid transformation.::

::That’s fine.:: Bumblebee relaxes, slightly, voice steadying. ::Hot Rod can run interference, and once you get back to more populated parts of the city, we should be able to break off the chase - we just need you two to keep moving.::

::I’m going ta take us both into th’ subsurface tunnels -:: Jazz interjects. ::Red, reroute us to Exit E358, ta -::

::The Marinar sub-city expressway. Done -:: Red Alert updates the geonav a moment later. ::And then we’ll put you underground at the Reed Street access -::

::- and it’ll be a straight shot ta th’ trainyards.:: Jazz pings back affirmation. ::You got it, mech.::

::Which will put you on -:: Red goes quiet for just a moment. ::Keep moving, and you’ll make the joor thirty-four breem six to Iacon. Otherwise, there’s a joor thirty-five to Protohex that will get you out of the city, and we can get you turned back around at a transfer station.::

::Keep an optic on that for me, Red.:: Bumblebee’s voice is firm. ::Once we’re close, get us a cab, and say whatever you need to so no one asks questions -::

Prowl’s attention is yanked from the conversation by the sound of a hot engine, gaining fast - but it’s Hot Rod that boils around the corner behind them, barrelling between them and ahead by almost three lengths before throttling back to edge between them.

::You two alright?:: He asks, voice near savage with excitement. ::We aren’t being followed anymore.::

::What -:: Prowl sweeps out a little wider, making space for him - there’s a charge to Hot Rod’s field that almost crackles across his plating. 

::Killed a couple. The rest of them decided not to stick around.:: He revs his engine aggressively. ::Good shooting back there, Jazz!::

::Did I kill th’ ‘path?:: Jazz asks. ::I couldn’t see - barely had a line on him -::

::Yeah - got his symbiont, first, and he went over, so I think you got him -::

Hound interjects, voice confident - ::I saw an aerial drop - probably one of his fliers. I’d call it a confirm.::

::Really?:: Bumblebee gives an approving ping. ::Good job, Jazz -::

::Yeah - well it’d have been a better slagging _job_ if we’d had some kinda warnin’ - seriously, mech, what th’ frag -:: Jazz’s voice and meta are humming with anger. 

::Any warning, and we risked a stray thought that Blackout might have picked up.:: Bumblebee hesitates, however. ::I’m sorry - but the extraction plan was good, and -::

::An’ I don’t mind riskin’ my spark, once in a while, fragger, but I _slaggin’_ want ta know when I’m doin’ it!:: Jazz’s engine snarls, and Hot Rod edges away as they approach the sub-surface roads. ::I’m workin’ fer you, sure - but I ain’ a _tool_ -::

::I’m sorry -:: Bumblebee’s tone is tight with stress. ::Look - we’ll debrief, you can rake me over the coals, if you want - clearly I’ve overstepped, but -::

::Oh, for Pit’s sake.:: Ratchet’s voice cuts in smoothly. ::Bee, shut up, you don’t have to protect me from _Jazz._ Jazz - stop yelling at Bumblebee - it was my idea.::

::Oh.:: Jazz goes silent.

::It was a good one. Titanium’s a lychpin, and we both know it. With him out of play, no one will be able to coordinate against us - the lords will be too busy fighting for power to present any real opposition.:: Ratchet pauses. ::You told me you’d take the shot, if you ever had it.::

::I did.:: Jazz hesitates. ::Sorry fer snappin’ at you, Bee.::

::It’s fine - I approved it -:: Bumblebee still sounds uneasy, like he’s waiting for a fight to break out between - _somebody._

::Nah, mech - we’re good.:: Jazz laughs. ::Slag, Ratch - you scared th’ Pit outta me -::

Ratchet doesn’t reply for a moment. When he does, his voice is small. ::I’m sorry, Jazz -:: 

::Nah, mech -:: The comms begin to haze with static fuzz as they enter the subsurface streets proper, and Jazz has just enough time to get out ::We’ll talk on th’ train, right? See you in a joor -:: before the line drops entirely.

Late at night, the subsurface streets are nearly empty, their daytime occupants asleep in the towering apartments overhelm - Jazz pulls out ahead, guiding them through the orange-lit passages until, a few kliks later, he transforms. 

Hot Rod tumbles to his pedes behind him a moment later - but it takes Prowl a klik to manage the transformation, Jazz stepping in to steady him as he carefully works the shoulder joint around. He can’t quite keep down a gasp of pain - but he waves off Hot Rod’s concerned look. 

“It’s not bad.” Hot Rod snorts disbelievingly at that, offering him an arm, which Prowl takes. “Really. I’ve worked on worse. Jazz - where are we going?”

“Down.” Jazz ducks into a shadowed corner, where an access grate is tucked behind a row of pipes. The lock - or, rather, the welded-on hoops where the lock should be - are gone, sheared off close to the metal of the grate. Jazz reaches down, and there’s a soft clank as his magnets lift the grate just enough to wiggle his fingers under it. “Come on - we’ve got a direct route from here, an’ I’d rather not have ta detour ‘round th’ city ‘cause we couldn’ catch th’ first train.”

Hot Rod drops down first, drawing a pistol from his subspace as he does, and scanning the tunnel. “Looks clear. I don’t think anyone’s wandering around, this late.” 

Prowl follows, and Jazz snorts as he drops down behind them. “Always somemech up, down here. An’ it ain’t that late - city ain’t _really_ dead till joor two or so. Still - not a lot o’ mech’s’ll slag wit’ three of us. Should prob’bly drop th’ colors, though - Titan’s mechs will be lookin’.”

Hot Rod nods, black shifting back to the elegant blue-and-purple palette, and Prowl examines his options for just a moment before switching out his enforcer colors for Bluestreak’s grey. Jazz takes a little longer - not much, just enough time to transform fully back to his civilian plating before flushing all over in blue and gold. They take a moment, slowly relaxing in the dim, quiet shelter of the tunnels.

“One of you should remove my lightbar. They’ll be looking for an enforcer and two racers - three racers won’t attract as much attention, not without my decals," Prowl says after a klik. That gets him an approving nod from Jazz - but Hot Rod is already stepping forwards.

“I can do it. I have the tools right here - give me a klik -” 

“Slag. You’re a medic, too?” Jazz asks, teasingly, and Hot Rod grins. 

“Basically.” He carefully examines the bolts holding the lightbar in place. “Nah - Ratchet showed me how to do him before we drove back. It’s not so hard.”

“Did he have you dissecting slag?” Jazz grins back. “I learned more about how optics work with him than any mech needs ta know, I swear -”

“Spark chambers,” Hot Rod offers as he begins unbolting the leading edge of the lightbar, working one screw per side and handing them carefully to Jazz as he goes. “He wanted the little crystal bits to grind, he said. It was kind of neat.”

“Well, once he’s back in Iacon you can hunt him up. He’s always happy ta have somemech ta put ta work…” Hot Rod hands him the last screw, holding the lightbar carefully in place as he does, and gestures for him to subspace them.

“Here - I need you to - one second -” Hot Rod rifles through his own subspace for a klik before pulling out a roll of black electrical tape. “Perfect. So - I need you to hold the lightbar while I clip the wires and tape them off, and we’ll see if I can do this without shocking you a bunch of times, right?”

“Right,” replies Prowl, not entirely able to sound convinced, and Hot Rod winces a little as he grins. 

“I only zapped Ratchet like three times, I promise.”

“No zappin’ my conjunx,” Jazz protests, but it’s hard to look menacing with both hands holding up Prowl’s lightbar. 

Hot Rod is careful, disconnecting the wires - he only drops one, and Prowl locks his frame to keep from jerking at the sudden sting. It’s just a little numbness - nothing major - and then Hot Rod is carefully feeding the wires back into his chassis, covering the hole with black tape.

“There you go. Not too bad, I hope?”

Prowl nods gratefully. “Not bad at all.” He glances at the lightbar. “Jazz, can you -”

“Sure, mech.” Jazz slips it into subspace with a laugh. “But we need to get moving. Come on - I know th’ way.” 

Prowl follows him, Hot Rod moving back to guard the rear. Moving through the tunnels is easy enough, though Prowl has to keep his wings flared back uncomfortably not to knock into the walls, and after a moment, Hot Rod chimes in again.

“So… you sounded pretty slagged at Bumblebee. Are you and Ratchet fighting, now, or…?”

“Nosey, ain’t you?” The question gets a grin from Hot Rod, and Jazz laughs again. “Nah, Ratch an’ I ain’t gonna fight - was prob’bly th’ right call, an’ all. Jus’ -” He vents heavily, glancing back at Prowl. “I dunno. I dunno Bee that well, kid - thinkin’ ‘bout him tossin’ us in it like that…”

“But we were fine!” Hot Rod protests. “I mean - yeah, it was a bit exciting, there, for a bit, but, you know - shot the bad guys, escaped like badafts - honestly, it was really cool!”

“It was.” Prowl hastens to reassure him. “And you performed spectacularly - that rush, I thought you were going to get _killed_ -” 

“Ha! As if. I’ve got _real_ armor - they didn’t stand a _chance._ ” He says it with such easy confidence that Prowl can’t help but chuckle. “What? I do - this is what we’re trained for! A couple of mechs with machine guns aren’t going to be able to take out one of the _Prime’sguard!_ ”

“Glad ta hear it, kid.” Jazz replies, a note of teasing in his voice, and Hot Rod ruffles his plating - but there’s a matching note of amusement in his field.

“Well - you should be! There’s all sorts of - of ‘ancient dignity and honor of the Prime’sguard’ to uphold, and Ironhide would be _fragged off_ if I got slagged by a bunch of mobsters!” He waves a hand wildly. “But I thought it went pretty well right up until the end there - I mean, I don’t think Titanium knew I spoke Protohex, and I wasn’t sure I should give it away, but I didn’t want it to look like I was asking because that would just give it away.”

“You did good there. What were th’ two o’ you sayin’, anyways?” It’s a question Prowl has been wanting to ask, too, but Hot Rod just shrugs.

“Oh - I guess Creance - the guy from Ratchet’s clinic - must’ve heard Ratchet call me Hot Rod at some point, and he was asking me about it. It wasn’t anything too serious - I told him I worked for Shockwave, and he seemed to believe me, so…” He trails off with a shrug. “You were amazing, though, Jazz! I thought he was going to shoot you when you bit him - how did you know he wouldn’t?”

“Ah - Right.” Prowl can feel a flush of embarrassment down the bond, and pushes teasingly back at it as Jazz hesitates. “Sure, I knew he wasn’ gonna shoot me, an’ all tha’.”

“Oh - _oooh._ ” Hot Rod pauses. “That would’ve been a bad reason to die.”

“Look - it’s instinct.” Jazz tosses a hand in the air. “Stick somethin’ in a fragged-off Polyhex’s face, an’ we bite it. Goes back all th’ way ‘fore th’ Golden Age.” He pauses. “Go on, keep givin' me slag fer it, an’ then bring yer hand over here an’ I’ll give ye a demonstration.”

“Aw…” Prowl makes a mocking chirping noise. “Jazz - you don’t need to be self-conscious.” He reaches out to brush a hand along Jazz’s shoulder teasingly, and Jazz lets out a grumble.

“I will bite th’ slag outta you, Prowler, don’ test me -” But his field is teasing, and he gives Prowl a fond glance over his shoulder as he lets out another soft growl.

“Oh! _Oh._ ” Hot Rod makes a knowing sound. “Oh - that makes a _lot_ more sense.”

Jazz turns around, walking backwards to get a better look at him - “What does, kid?”

“Well - Ratchet said he treated lots of mechs who had done interesting things to their spikes, and _I_ thought he meant, like, catching rustrash, but getting your spike bit off by a -”

Whatever else he might be saying is drowned out by the loud clanging noise Jazz makes as he trips over his own pedes and clatters backward with a loud _clang_.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They make it to the edge of the tunnels without incident - they’re making enough noise that the other residents steer clear of them. Once they reach the grate, though, Jazz gestures for them to stop.

“Hang on a klik -” There’s a moment of silence - then a comms channel opens between the three of them, blooming out to include Bumblebee a moment later. ::Bee - can you hear me?::

::Jazz.:: Bumblebee sounds relieved. ::Good - you mechs are right on time. Are you still disguised as Meister? Because the platform is _crawling_ with mechs - a couple of enforcers, and a _lot_ of big mechs that look like they don’t have any honest business being out this joor.::

::We’re fine, yeah. Roddy managed to get Prowl’s lights off, so we’re running civilian colors at the klik. Have we got a train? We’re ‘bout a breem from the station - didn’ want ta come up anywhere mechs might be lookin’.::

::Yeah - we should be able to get the direct to Iacon - you’ve still got two breems to get here.:: Bumblebee pauses, as if considering something. ::Split up right before you hit this street - Ratchet will join up with you, Hot Rod, and I’ll meet up with you two. Two distinct groups with different profiles will get a lot less attention than one group of five.:: 

::Five?:: Prowl can’t keep the worry out of his voice. ::Where’s Hound?::

::Going to ground in Praxus. He made it away from the Opal unobserved, and with Titanium dead, we’re going to need optics on the ground.:: Bumblebee pauses. ::And a new safehouse - Punch and Flipsides will be back in the city as soon as they’ve recovered, but we can’t move them into position without somewhere to go.::

::And Skids?:: Jazz pushes.

::Fine - he’s already back in Iacon, reporting in to Mirage. He managed to secure the safe-house before leaving - there aren’t any loose ends left for us to worry about. Except getting out of here.::

::Good.:: Jazz glances at Prowl, then Hot Rod. “Roddy, hate ta do this ta you, mech - you want ta hop out there first? Give us a helms-up ‘bout anymech who might be lookin?”

“Sure.” Hot Rod’s gaze settles on Prowl for a moment, though. “One klik - Prowl, you aren’t still bleeding, right?”

“Not anymore.” Prowl affirms. “I cut off energon flow to the damaged area - I won’t be moving my arm much, though.” 

“Slag.” Jazz gives him another once-over, gesturing for him to turn. “Hole doesn’ look too bad - you got anythin’ ta clean him up with, kid?” It takes Prowl a moment to realize what they’re both looking at - the sticky, half-dried energon that is crusted along his shoulder - and in long, obvious streaks down his back..

“I have solvent -” Hot Rod digs it out, offering the bottle. “No meshes, though - we could ball up some bandages, maybe, see if that’d work -”

“I have a polishing cloth.” He pulls it out and hands it to Jazz, who sloshes the solvent over it - and his shoulder. “But - go, Hot Rod. Jazz can take care of this - thank you for catching it.”

“I’ll see you on the train.” Hot Rod pauses just long enough for a teasing grin. “Comm if you need a rescue - and Prowl, don’t get anything bit off -” Then he’s gone, hauling himself neatly out of the pipeway before kicking the grate back into place.

“Primus.” Jazz shakes his helm. “Good catch by him, though - would’a hated ta have to clean this topside.” His hands work, firm but careful, across Prowl’s armor - there are spots where he has to scrape, a little, where the energon has congealed completely, but the worst of it comes off easily with the solvent.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect.” Prowl winces, a little - there’s a stinging where the solvent has infiltrated his plates, and begun to foam away the energon coagulated around his lines, but with the flow to the limb cut off, they don’t do more than seep a little. “No one will look that closely, as long as I don’t have a gaping wound.”

It takes a klik to have the worst of it off - then Jazz tucks the ruined polishing cloth, and the remaining solvent, back into subspace, and scales the ladder to shove the grate out of the way. He peers out for a moment, scanning, before returning his focus to Prowl. >>Looks clear, Prowler. You gonna need a hand?<<

>>I should be able to manage.<< Even with one arm offline, the ladder isn’t a serious obstacle, and it only takes a few moments to scramble up it and back onto the city street. ::Hot Rod - anything to keep an optic out for?::

::Couple of watchers, yeah.:: Hot Rod pings them - first a map, a rough copy taken from a satellite image of the street, then a set of points. ::Too many to avoid, I think - you’re better off just walking forwards and looking confident.::

::We can manage, I’m sure.:: Prowl gives Jazz a smile - then pulls him in for a quick kiss. >>Two mechs in love, heading out to visit family, or something.<<

>>Works fer me, Prowler. An’ don’ worry -<< Jazz grins back at him. >>Whatever ‘spersions have been cast on my honor, I’ve head Ratch can fix _anythin’._ <<

That gets an honest laugh out of Prowl - and Jazz pushes them into the street, still grinning broadly. He leans in, as if whispering something else - and Prowl tucks himself against his side, glancing away as if embarrassed.

>>I can see two of them from here,<< he pings Jazz. >>One of them looked over - I think we’re fine, though. He’s moving on.<<

>>Yeah - I see him. Third one - don’t look - building to our left, second story.<< Jazz reaches up to wrap an arm across Prowl’s shoulders, hand conveniently blocking his injury from view. >>He’s got a scope.<<

Fortunately, the injury itself is on the opposite side from him - Prowl keeps walking, laughing again as if Jazz has made a joke. >>This is… a lot of mechs. More than I expected, this quickly -<<

>>It’s been almost a joor,<< Jazz offers. >>And these ain’t all Titan’s mechs - I bet every ganglord in th’ city has mechs out lookin’ fer us. Whoever finds us - well, there’s a lot of power up fer grabs, an’ handin’ us over ta Titan’s loyalists would be a slaggin’ good way ta ensure some of it’s comin’ ta you.<<

>>True. Up ahead - end of the street.<< He can barely see the mech in his peripheral vision, but Jazz sends back a ping of acknowledgement. >>And Barricade - he’ll want us. Want me, badly - he’ll have every enforcer he can on the streets tonight.<<

>>It’s gonna be Pit.<< Jazz agrees. >>We’ll be outta here in a couple o’ breems, though - it’s gonna be fine. Although -<< and there’s a feral grin to the word - >>wouldn’ say no ta havin’ a quick chat wi’ Barricade on our way out, if it came ta it.<<

>>Much as I hate to say it…<< Prowl hesitates. >>We’ll need him. Losing Titanium is going to be bad enough - losing Barricade, too? It would be chaos, with no one to direct the enforcers. He’ll try to centralize power under himself - that, at least, will be a stabilizing influence.<<

He pauses again, ducking his helm up against Jazz’s neck armor in a kiss to hide his face as they move past another watching mech. >>It’s going to be bad, these next few orns.<<

>>It is. But that - well, I dunno.<< Jass presses a kiss to the top of his helm mirroring the gesture, and the observer glances away. >>Ratchet an’ I were always plannin’ somethin’ like this, if we ever got th’ chance - take out Titan, an’ use th’ confusion ta slag as many o’ th’ other lords as we could. An’ I mean - ain’t like we ain’t gonna be able ta use this - Bee ain’t gonna have any trouble gettin’ mechs in an’ out of Praxus wit’ the whole city in an uproar -”

>>He wouldn’t have allowed it without some kind of plan.<< Prowl nods as they duck past another watcher. 

They manage to make it to the entrance of the station without interference - but as they start to head through the open gate, a large mech steps out to stop them.

::Slag - Bee!:: Jazz pings the message out. ::Prowl and I have some trouble -::

::Coming -::

“How can I help you, sir?” Prowl gives a respectful bob of his wings to the larger mech, who looks them up and down appraisingly.

“Been lookin’ fer a Poly like your friend, there, mech. What’s a pair of mechs like you doin’ travellin’ at a time like this?”

“We’re - celebrating!” Prowl gives Jazz a quick ping down the bond. “Our conjunxing. We’re just heading home to Protohex - my Sire approved the match, so…” He gives the mech a delighted waggle of his doorwings, and Jazz, catching on, nods, beaming, before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Oh - ah…” That seems to have disarmed the mech a little. “At this time o’ night?”

“Th’ party ran late - an’ o’ course, I gotta be at work t’morrow afternoon, so…” Jazz grins. “Figured we might as well rent a private box an’ grab some ‘charge on th’ train.”

The mech still looks suspicious, and Jazz casts his optic over the crowd. “I don’ suppose you’ve seen a little yellow guy runnin’ around? One of our friends came up wit’ us -”

Bumblebee, mercifully, takes that moment to burst from the thin crowd. “Primus - there you two are. What - did you get distracted with each other again?” He glances up at the larger mech. “Oh - who’s this?”

“I dunno.” Prowl briefly pings Bumblebee a paraphrasing of the discussion, while Jazz eyes the mech. “Who are you, anyways? You got a lot of questions, fer a stranger -”

The mech hesitates, then, giving Bumblebee another sideways glance, shrugs. “None of yer business - you can go.” He waves a hand dismissively. “‘Grats on bondin’ and all that.”

“Thanks, mech!” Jazz bounces on his heels again, and Prowl gives a happy little flutter of his wings before Bumblebee grabs them both by the wrists and drags them away.

::Primus, I can’t believe that worked -:: Jazz is laughing, down the bond. ::Good job, Prowler.::

::Good job to both of you.:: Bumblebee grins back at them over his shoulder. ::I really didn’t expect them to have this many mechs out on the streets so _quickly_ , but -::

::Eh - everybody sends a couple o’ mechs, an’ it adds up.:: Jazz shrugs. ::Th’ good news is, they ain’t gonna be keen on sharin’ info - we ain’t bein’ tracked, we’re bein’ watched by a hundred mechs lookin’ fer a tell. Ain’t anymech gonna notice us hoppin’ a train fer Iacon instead of Protohex.::

::Good.:: Bumblebee lets go of their hands as soon as they’re well out of sight of their questioner. ::And now that we’re on the platform, you don’t stick out near as much, Jazz. Come on - Red’s got us a car, last-minute but they’re not going to ask many questions.::

::Perfect.:: It’s not too hard to move through the crowds - the last evening riders sleepily looking to get home by morning - and it doesn’t take long to reach the car in question, where Hot Rod and Ratchet are already aboard.

::Hey, guys,:: Jazz pings on a general channel. 

::Hey, Jazz!:: Hot Rod gives him a thumbs up as they clamber aboard

::Good t’ see the two of you made it.:: Jazz grins back.

::No one appears to have followed you.:: Red Alert chimes in, helpfully. ::I am blocking the cameras - and any audio feeds - in this carriage. You should be as safe as you can be, until you reach Iacon.::

“Perfect - thanks, Red.” Bumblebee glances around, optics settling in a corner where Prowl, after a moment, can make out the dark outline of a camera.

::No problem.:: Then Red’s voice is gone, and Prowl lets himself drop out of the comms chatter.

“How was your journey here?”

“Eh - not bad.” Bumblebee shrugs. “We were sticking close, ready to run interference - but once we were sure that you three had gotten away and that Hound was going to be able to extract successfully, we hauled aft via the highways. Managed to make it to the station before most of the mechs looking for you - we just found a quiet corner and pretended we were fueling together.”

“And speaking of fuel.” Ratchet makes a come-hither gesture, a short, sharp flick of his wrist. “Let me take a look at that shoulder.”

Prowl obediently wanders over, sitting when Ratchet gestures him down - gentle hands running a finger over the boltholes for his lightbar before turning his attention to the gunshot. “You did a good job with this, kid. Did you have to dump the lightbar, or…?”

“I’ve got it.” Jazz grins, unsubspacing it just long enough to toss it in his hands before dropping it back into subspace. “Wasn’ gonna leave a big piece of Prowler fer anyone tailin’ us ta find.”

“Good.” Ratchet glances up for just a moment. “We can reinstall it once we’re back in Iacon - or I can machine a new backplate for you, so you’re not lugging around a bunch of obvious holes.”

“Thank you.” Prowl ducks his helm gratefully. “I think - I should probably go without, at least for the time being -”

“- Easier to hide a Praxian than a Praxian enforcer. Yeah, probably should.” Ratchet’s fingers, careful, probe the wound in his shoulder. “And this - well, it isn’t too bad. More than I’m going to try to patch up here, for sure - you’ll need a whole new shoulder assembly, and that’ll take a med-bay. You’re - one klik -”

There’s the wash of a scanner over him, and Ratchet nods. “Not leaking, at least not enough to worry about - I’ll probably just take the whole arm off once we’re back in Iacon.”

“Thank you.” Prowl pushes fond gratitude into his field, and Ratchet shakes his helm as he pulls away.

“Don’t bother - not when I’m the mech who got you shot.”

“You didn’t -” Prowl protests, frowning.

“It was my dumb plan that put you there.” Ratchet glances from him, to Jazz, to Hot Rod. “All three of you.” He vents, heavily, unsubspacing a mesh to wipe the dried energon off his fingertips. “Slag - I’m sorry. All three of you should be fragged off at me - and rightly so -”

“Ratch -” Jazz trails off, stepping forwards to brush his fingers across Ratchet’s face - and Ratchet’s hand reaches up to catch them. “Slag, Ratch - I ain’t gonna be angry wit’ you.”

“I put you in danger, Jazz. You and Prowl. You weren’t wrong about that -”

“You got th’ _right_ , mech.” Jazz’s voice is fierce as he says it, and Prowl steps forward, laying a hand on his shoulder and meeting Ratchet’s optics with a small nod. “Sure, I was fragged when I thought some fragger that botnapped me an’ Prowler an orn ago was callin’ th’ shots - no offense, mech -”

Bumblebee waves the apology off, looking deeply curious -

“But you ain’t him.”

“We trust you, Ratchet. Jazz does. I do.” Prowl offers - and he can feel a little flicker of good-natured impulsiveness from Jazz - 

“Sides - isn’ that kind of the point of _amica_? That you trust ‘em wit’ your life, an’ all?” Jazz gives a little grin, and Ratchet cycles his optics at him.

“ _Amica -_ what?”

“I mean - if you wanted to be. Been thinkin’ ‘bout askin, fer a while, now, actually -” Ratchet stares at him, wide-opticked, and Prowl can feel the first touch of unease down the bond. “I mean - I know there’s a proper way ta ask, an’ all, I was gonna talk ta th’ Prime about it -”

“No.”

There’s something tearing and awful in the way Ratchet says the word - the way he pulls away from Jazz, half-rising to his pedes, and Jazz draws back, his own field flickering in alarm -

“No, don’ ask th’ Prime, or -”

“No - no, Jazz. Don’t - don’t ask me again.” Ratchet steps away, and his field surges wildly with something Prowl can’t place - Jazz lets his hand drop to his lap, his own field curdling in distress. “I - just don’t.”

“Right.” And Prowl can feel the way his whole meta draws inward, reaches out to wrap around it, Jazz latching on, desperate and despairing as Ratchet retreats - one step backwards, then two, until he’s pressed into the opposite corner of the car, optics dark, not meeting Jazz’s gaze.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They spend the rest of the ride like that, in silence - even Hot Rod not daring enough to risk snapping the taut quiet between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that - another of our longer stories is over! Huh - bit of a downer ending, there, but I'm sure it will all work out.
> 
> I hope you guys have enjoyed this one - I know I've hit some rough patches during it, and it's meant a lot to have so many familiar faces following along! A couple of you have reached out to me on Tumblr (I'm also AardRinn there) and you're all, of course, welcome to get in touch!
> 
> Speaking of people who have gotten in touch - DesdemonaKaylose did this absolutely gorgeous art of one of the scenes from The Capture with Humanformers!Jazz and Prowl - you should go check it out! It's super-cute: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/sauntervaguelydown/626458432831127552
> 
> So, we are - once again - leaving Praxus behind, for a little while, at least! The next thing out is going to be Mirage's backstory, which should go up in just a day or so - it's going to be a five or six chapter, shorter story, so it should go fairly quickly. I'm going to have the Cliffjumper thing in there, somewhere, too - and then it's back to Iacon as we transition into the third and final arc of the main story: the actual Praxian arc! We'll spend around five chapters there, finishing up some stuff in the city, and then probably do Jazz and Ratchet's backstory before heading back to Praxus for another really big (like, The Talk-length) story where we deal with Praxus.
> 
> We're about two-thirds of the way done with what I have planned for Crime in Crystals as a whole - and, let me tell you, I never expected it to become such a big thing! Rereading some of the early stuff, where I mentioned intending it to be 80 or 120k words... man, past me was kind of dumb, huh? But it really means a lot to me that you've all stuck around.


End file.
